Tuesday, March 3, 2009


Our faith, borne out over the years has withstood us through many a storm. It was taught to us as children, lived out before us and expressed in corporate worship. Weekdays would find all the extended young adult family members working Grandpa's crops of cotton, corn, whatever the season brought. We children had our jobs too, keeping the water supplied and, in mid‑afternoon delivering Grandma's special treat of the day, a hefty plate of flapjacks or perhaps her very special apple turnovers. We somehow managed to always find our way back to the field to pick up a ride on the horsedrawn sled bringing the tools in at day's end. Come Saturday, the day would be spent preparing for church on Sunday – we children giggling and teasing as we got our baths in a tub of rainwater warmed by the sun; polishing our shoes and finding our best socks, checking clothes to be worn, everything to be in readiness for Sunday morning. No time to fool around on Sunday morning; like as not, there was a chicken to be caught, killed, dipped and de‑feathered to be prepared for the meal later that day. Grandpa was the inspector general on Sunday mornings. He would check us out for appearance, socks turned down, no slip showing, etc. Grandpa would make sure that each one had a clean handkerchief in our pocket and he would give to each child a nickel for Sunday School.

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