When religion becomes more complicated than it seems Jesus ever meant it to be, these words from Alice Walker's book, "Color Purple," come to mind.

"Tell the truth. Have you ever found God in church? I never did. I just found a bunch of folks hoping for God to show. Any God I ever found in church I brought in with me and I think all the other folks did, too. They come to church to share God, not find God."

Margaret Marie Bragg, mother of Pulitzer Prize journalist, Rick Bragg, read her Bible, but she didn't go to church to share God, for she didn't own a dress fit for the Lord's house, nor shoes without holes.

And she had holes in her heart, holes bored deep with beatings from her husband, holes bored deep when she stepped between the drunken father and the three little boys, taking the blows meant for them, as they stood paralyzed with fear.

After her husband left her a number of times, he finally failed to return, except toward the end by phone, when he was dying of TB at the age of 40.

Then, he would talk about the children, but mostly he just wanted to talk about the Lord. Margaret listened, and was church for him, who had never been church for her.

One day, he asked to see Rick, now a freshman in high school, who found his father a shriveled old man, no longer the tall, fearsome giant he had remembered.

There were two presents for the boy, a shotgun and a box of books. As Rick traveled from one newspaper job to the next, the books went with him, an unbroken link with the man who was unable to be a father to him or his brothers.

While working for the "New York Times," Rick wrote about little people like Gangaram Mahes, the Serial Diner, saying of him: "He is a thief who never runs, a criminal who picks his teeth as the police close in. To be arrested, to go home to a cell at Rikers Island, is his plan when he picks up a menu. He prefers to dine in mid-town, because - in a place where a chicken salad sandwich can cost $15 - he figures he is just one more thief."

Rick described walking the streets of New York on the morning he heard of his Pulitzer Prize in 1996: "I thought of a woman in Alabama, who was probably soaking beans and flipping through the King James Bible, a woman who didn't even know what a Pulitzer was."

When he called to tell her of winning the great award, she was thrilled for him, but didn't want to go to New York for the banquet celebration. She said she didn't have the proper clothes. She had no teeth. She wouldn't know how to talk to those important, educated people.

Rick sent her money for new clothes, for a date with the hairdresser, for new teeth, which didn't fit any better than the old ones, and for a plane ticket.

The courageous mother flew to New York and won the hearts of everyone at the paper, from the publisher to the newest cub reporter.

Later, Rick was able to give his mother a home, debt-free, with a porch in front and a garden in the back.

In her son's book, "All Over but the Shoutin," now in paperback, with words that sing from page to page, Margaret Marie Bragg's life proclaims the Gospel, this mother who picked cotton until she was bent over, ironed other people's clothes, and made excuses to leave the supper table early, so there would be more food for the children. Her story is like a cool breeze off a Wisconsin lake on a summer's night.

This is a book for everyone, including young men who will meet a Pulitzer Prize writer, who turned out to be a Pulitzer Prize son.

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