The one Sunday of the year
we all joined together at the same church
and took up two long pews,
my brother and I were dressed up more than the usual Sundays.
Lacy socks, spring eyelet, silky white gloves that fit my small fingers perfectly,
and always a hat.
But it wasn’t the outfits,
or the message that made me feel
like something special was happening on that day,
one year, when we all came together,
it was Papaw’s fervor in belting his booming, joyous voice
over top the backs of the pastel woven ladies’ hats atop the shoulder-padded frames and the men’s beige suits,
it was how he closed his eyes and knew the words -
he knew the words without looking!
It was how, when I decided to nestle up against his larger than life, confident frame, entwining my arm around his regular pressed suit, and slowly inhaled the wonderful smell of him -
the mix of musk and menthol,
he held the hymnal low enough for me
as I searched the lines to catch up and join in,
and then, only wanting to match his joy,
I sang, with my soft soprano voice,
“And when I think that God, His Son not sparing
Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in
That on the cross, my burden gladly bearing
He bled and died to take away my sin
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
How great Thou art, how great Thou art,”
and his eyes would meet mine
and I noticed they were wet
and the imminent tears,
I think,
held the promise of what might be.
And maybe then,
that’s when I knew this was a different kind of day
and I could believe in miracles, too,
just like Papaw did.