24:
BELL RINGING
It
is my day to ring the church bell. I
don’t often have that chance. Mr.
Jenkins has gotten me out of Sunday School to assist him in announcing that
it is nearly time for church.
He
unties the rope from the wall and lets it hang. I can barely reach its frayed knotted end.
I stand on my toes to manage a better grip.
Mr. Jenkins nods and I pull.
At
first there is only a clunk.
“Try
again,” Mr. Jenkins says. “You
have to find the rhythm.”
I
nod, and pull again. I follow
the rope downward with my upper body and then hold on tight as it takes its
journey upward. Gradually, the clunking sounds become purer until I know I
have it. Up and down I go until
peals of the bell fill my ears.
Mr.
Jenkins waves his arms for me to stop before the bell is damaged.
It
is Sunday morning and I have called the people to God’s house.
I beam with pride as I join my family who are now taking their seats
in a pew.
Now
comes the hard part. Sitting
through the church service is not always easy.
I try to listen to the preacher, but sometimes I can’t make sense
of what he is saying. My folks
say that, because our preachers are seminary students, a lot of people
don’t understand what they’re talking about, but I am not supposed to
squirm, yawn, or fall asleep—even though Mr. Nelson, sitting behind us, is
already snoring and we’ve only sung one hymn.
I
can read some of the words in the hymnal but not enough to sing along.
It will be a good day when I can sing with everyone else.
I
know the Lord’s Prayer—at least that’s something I can do.
And I like it when the preacher tells us kids a story, but he
doesn’t do that very often. Someday I’ll be like the older kids and go up to the pulpit
to read from the Bible and that other reading stuff from the hymnal.
It’s kind of funny when Tommy Maxon gets up to read; he reads so
fast no one knows what the scripture was about until the preacher explains
it later. And Sally Dexter
still has to stand on a stool to read.
I wonder what would happen if she slipped and fell.
I
like it when the preacher prays. No
one is supposed to be watching me then, but I still get a squeeze on the arm
from my mother most Sundays. I
don’t know why people look down to pray when God’s supposed to be up
there somewhere. It’s
surprising that Ma still has any strength in her fingers after scrubbing
both my ears and my brother’s. If
clean ears make for good listening, then I ought to be a very good listener.
Yay!
It’s the last song. The
preacher walks by and smiles at me. I,
of course, smile back. He says
his last words from the back of the church and we are done.
We
fall in line to shake hands with the preacher.
He sure has big hands—big feet too.
My folks stop and talk with neighbors and I make a beeline for a
friend.
She
says, “The bell sounded real fine this morning, Bobby.
I heard Mr. Jenkins say you did a good job.
You must be getting strong.”
I
shove my hands in my pockets, nod, and look down to the gravel driveway to
find a stone to throw.
