Gospel Music by Brenda G. Howard

GOSPEL MUSIC

"Momma, why is that white lady in our church?" asks a little girl of five.

The little girl sits in the pew in front of me and peeks over the back--looking at me curiously. Her braids bounce as she wiggles around.

"Shhhh! Turn around and sit still," says her Momma in a harsh whisper.

The little girl peeks over one more time. I smile gently for her. She gives me a shy smile, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, and turns around.

The sounds of people greeting each other and embracing, as they come into the wood framed church, are a gentle back drop to the peaceful feeling that blankets the sanctuary. The choir, robed in blue and gold, sing from their collective souls in harmony. The rich voices tell of Leaning On The Everlasting Arms Of Jesus.

I sing with the choir softly. I know every word of the hymn. I fill with emotion as I sing.

Why am I here? A white woman in a gospel church. I'm not sure of the answer.

My parents never went to church and I'm not sure that either of them really believes in God. Maybe they do. We never discussed it.

The smell of Old Spice touches my nose and I look up to see a kindly gentleman in a dark suit. I move my Bible and purse over, to make room on the hardwood pew, for him and his wife. We exchange silent greetings.

The choir begins again as they stand holding their hymnals. No one reads the words--they know the story of Amazing Grace from their hearts.

Ah, my grandmother's favorite hymn. As they sing, I can hear her voice singing with them. It still surprises me when I hear her voice. I expected I would never hear her sing again after she died. I guess that's what memories are for--feeling and hearing the people you love--after they are gone.

Thinking about singing with my grandmother brings a smile to my face. It reminds me of when I was a little girl of five. She would take me by the hand and lead me to the pew in the old country church.

She would lean over and whisper in my ear, "Sweetheart, you'll receive a blessing today. There's always a blessing in the joy of singing."

I would sit quietly and listen to the choir and the solos. The love, strength, and conviction gaining entry to my heart in the notes of music. Promises of safety and security. Guarantees of strength. Songs of eternal life. Peacefulness washed over the faces of the choir--mixed with the sun shining through the stain glass windows.

Grandma would let me stand on the pew and she would point to the words in the hymnal as we sang together. She did this even before I could read.

Grandma's church didn't have anything fancy like air conditioning. They would open the huge windows and the breeze would touch my face.

I hear the rustling of paper. A breeze has caught the pages of my hymnal. It doesn't matter--my grandmother taught me about the Peace In The Valley--years ago.

Why am I here? As I drove by the church, I heard my grandmother's voice, mixed with the sounds of the choir, carried on a breeze through open windows. She said to me, "Sweetheart, you'll receive a blessing today. There's always a blessing in the joy of singing."

I feel a tug on my dress. The bouncing braids of the little girl are next to me.

"Do you like singing?" she asks shyly.

"I love singing." I lift her small body up onto the pew and share my hymnal with my newfound friend.

Note: This story was published in Evangel on September 28, 1997

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