Father, Son and Mirabou.

Wide reddish-orange satellite receivers. Overturned heather-grey felt dogdishes. Glittery-gold toilet paper cozies. These are the hats of COGIC, and they fascinate me.

If I could wear a hat like the ones I've seen this past week, dress in furry white sequined gowns flanked by a husband dripping in mainly orange, electric blue, and purple with fur-trimmed hatbands, surrounded by a small flock of children dressed accordingly, sharply, and in tow, I'd handle a snake once a year if I had to. To wear those feathery boas, I'd handle a boa constrictor for at least 60 seconds if it were necessary.

Not that COGIC worshippers handle snakes by any means. I respect what little I know. I'd never even heard of COGIC until i moved here. But I'm just saying I'd do anything to dress like that. Proudly blending into a large crowd of People Dressed Just Like Me, Like Divine Royalty. It's not just the fancy cars packing the parking lots around the Pyramid Arena, every car nice, spotless and dentless, it's just something about COGIC that fascinates me as they gather here in Memphis for the COGIC Convocation, just a mile from where I live. And every year, as usual, I'm not invited.

I went to pick up that Oreo ice cream cake for Scott's birthday bash (which turned into Vodka Tonic Karaoke BlowOut*), and lo, it was good. In the valet parking section at The Peabody, where in my opinion it's not parking if you don't switch off the car, I pulled up behind an oxymoron: a huge mini-van. And Ron says from his passenger side view, "Oh wow, looka tha-a-at... no, wait, you'll see." And on my way into Peabody Place, making my way around the huge mini-van, I froze. Emerging from the huge mini-van was the queen poobah of all COGIC great-great-grandmatrons, and to me, she was spectacular.

She was dressed in the whitest wool and satin blend dress I have ever seen in my life. Not so white that it had a purple-twinge in the light like a bridal gown gone bad, but just white as newly-fallen snow. And I'll never be able to process all that she had on. I'm sure it'll take a few dreams here and there to see it all somewhere. But without staring, I saw that the front of her dress was absolutely covered in sparkles, spangles and dangly things made of silver, gold, brass and copper. They spun around and tinkled against each other like the tiniest windchimes. Her shoes were slightly off-looking, being a simple straight-up silver mesh brocade bedecked with clear sequins and beads. But that made it even more human, like an earthly intervention.

For a woman of her remarkable age, her white stockings were stretched evenly, and rose as discreetly as possible, disappearing somewhere in darkness. But it was her hat, dear God, her hat. I think I heard angels singing. It was a billowy white cloud of the softest looking mirabou ever created by fowl, floating weightless and waving gently with the undertow like the tentacles of a sea anemone in her deep, tranquil still of ocean blue.

It was one of those moments when time paused for something bigger than itself. Like a split-second warm realization, a hesitating moment in front of an empty altar on Christmas night; or the nothingness of being propped between resting, sleeping and a bowl of corn chips and hot cheese dip, bundled up on a couch on a New Year's Day. The stopwatch clicks off for that second or two and thankfully, you hear nothing.

But again, I tried not to stare. But again. I'd never been this close to an actual COGIC matron, never been so close to those people I've watched walking in close-knit groups to salvation year after year, to the shiniest, pointiest building this side of Las Vegas or Giza for that matter, and I have never been this close to a hat that heavenly. So I waited for her to wobble her way up the stairs. She had the posture of a jumbo prawn, and I didn't even notice her cane until then. It could have been 24K gold. But that hat. That divine chapeau. Untarnished by a drag queen and fit for a king's bride. It was That Hat.

So I stood there as her self-appointed maidservant, waiting patiently as she inched her way up what seemed ten flights of stairs but only three steps. One for the Father, one for the Son and the other, yes, the Holy Spirit maybe. I really couldn't see her face. But I spoke directly into The Hat.

"I have the door for you ma'am."

She acknowledged me with the standard lil ole lady "HUH?... Oh... thanky."

Then I took the liberty of saying what I really thought, "You sure do look pretty today." And as she shuffled past me, she said in this oddly robust voice that echoed in the glass foyer, "Ohhh THANK you, baybeh!..." And then after a moment's thought, she added "My feet hurt... where the escalator at?" Panicked, I said "Uhm, oh... I... don't know.. but I do know where the elevator is, way over there past the restrooms..." To which she replied, "Ohhhhh Lawd."

On my way to pick up the cake, I realized that I'm stupid. There are the escalators, right there, you moron. So I turn back to tell her this and she was gone. Vanished. Nothing but an empty spot with dappled reflections of indirect light. Then the spot was engulfed with faceless, uninteresting retail consumers. Again and again.

I hope that's not as close to God as ever I get. But if so then I'll take it. I'll add it to the box of warm moments stopped in time over life. Odds are I won't remember them. Occasionally one bubbles up from my own deep. But every time I save one, I hope they all pour out over my soul when I die. I'd like to see what goes on at the COGIC Convocation, I am pretty sure I'd feel something. But for now, I'll just look at them all through my dirty car windows next year as the richly-dressed, quite possibly bless-ed people pass me on the street, spooking the occasional wide-eyed European traveller on his pilgrimage to Graceland into wondering "Is it always like this here?" as they pass each other quietly, solemnly, walking their own ways to salvation. And even though I'd never really fit in, I'd like to be truly sure enough of myself to wear one of those hats. Either that or blissfully unaware of wearing one all my life.



*For anyone wondering, I belted-out Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.