PAPPY’S SONG

“Please turn in your hymnal to page 320, ‘The Old Rugged Cross’.”
As my fingers flipped the pages, my mind flipped back through the years. I could hear that precious hymn coming from the back room of the home of my childhood.
“…So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross…”
My eyes became moist with tears as I recalled the strong yet tender voice of my grandfather, now many years dead, singing from his room in the days of my youth.
Everybody needs something – some escape. This escape can come in many forms. Some people nuke their brains with the tube. For others, a bottle of wine fits the bill. For my grandfather, it was his cherished hymnal kept in his back room.
Not much of a room. It had been previously called our utility room. My dad used it to store tools and ham radio equipment. There were things called tube testers and other things called testers for the tube testers. Those were the escapes of my father. Those and his cows.
And there were also four little girls buzzing around in that room. One of them a freckled faced, snaggled toothed, curly headed beanpole. That one was me.
My grandfather never drove an automobile and we lived fifteen miles or more out in the country. About once or twice a month he would put on his “city clothes” and walk the dusty country road to catch the bus to Mobile. Everyone called him “Mr. Dude” when he was dressed so fine. He always brought us back tiny bottles of “Evening in Paris” perfume from the dime store; and for a day or two we felt like fine ladies as we splashed the $.25 luxury on ourselves several times a day.
But everybody has to have something. My grandfather (we called him Pappy) had two things. One was his afternoon coffee. He’d fix it with a flourish. Then, to cool it, he’d pour half of the piping hot liquid into a saucer and blow on it. We kids knew it was time to skedaddle – the man was about the slurp.
And we are talking about SLURRRRRRRP!
We often could hear it outside and would sing as loudly as we could just to escape that torture.
But he lived out in the country, with four little girls, and a lot of cows in an unheated, non-air conditioned backroom.
And everybody needs something.
But he had two escapes. The other Something brought me considerably more pleasure than the coffee ritual. That other thing was his church songs. I know he must have been lonely for people his own age. He must have realized that only the Savior could understand. That must be why he so frequently sang, all alone, from that backroom struggling to remember the words of some of the stanzas.
“Till my trophies at last I lay down.”
I put my hymnal back on the pew and sat to hear the sermon. But instead of focusing on our pastor, I stared at the hymnal sitting on the padded pew and remembered another church long ago. The pews were wooden, the floor beige tile (it won’t show so much dirt, the ladies had all said). There were cardboard fans on sticks that look like the ones your doctor peeks into your throat with. They had advertisements on them: “Millers Garage – Finest in the South.” Phillips Pharmacy – We Discount Daily.” Back in those days, it gave me something to read to get my mind off the hell fire sermons. Not a pleasant thought on a hot Alabama evening
I remembered the day when I was about eleven. Our fifty-member congregation had purchased fifty new songbooks. They were filled with the songs that my grandfather loved so much: Trust and Obey, Amazing Grace, In the Sweet Bye and Bye.
That afternoon my grandfather was in fire form. The songs from the back room sounded sweeter and he had somehow managed to get the second and third stanzas right.
I put two and two together that evening back at church when our pastor, Brother Lollie, presented the grave news: We purchased fifty books. This this morning’s services, we counted. There are only forty-nine books here now. Whoever took this book is stealing. Please return it.”
I wondered what my sweet Pappy would do. It gave him so much pleasure and comfort. Yet I realized the church wanted their book back. I was troubled.
As the sermon dragged on and on, the fans had not been only read but memorized.
I began to think of a church just down the street. How badly we had talked about them when we found out what had happened there on Christmas:

  They had painstakingly made a manger scene to grace the front lawn of their church grounds. It was complete with a star wired above and a doll wrapped in a beautiful furry blanket. One Sunday morning, they arrived to find the Christ child uncovered – someone had dared to steal the blanket!
  The good people had been outraged. They would not rest till they found the one guilty of such sacrilege. And indeed they found just that – a local high school thug had taken it. When interrogated, he took them to his shack of a home to show them his new baby sister. She was covered with the only blanket they owned – the one from the Christ Child.
  The people were ashamed that they had found the resources to provide for decoration and yet neglected a starving local family. It was a Christmas laden with switches and lumps of coal it seemed to them. I was sure Christ would have wanted that blanket, His blanket, to do the work it had wound up doing: warming a tender life and reminding His people of their pride.

I began to see similarities between that blanket being designated to be used in one way but having a greater purpose. And our church wanting to use the hymnals in church only. Perplexing! Both churches were right to seek to use their resources as they had. But perhaps flexibility and understanding were lacking.
On that evening of reflection I saw numerous hymnals to spare while the invitation was being sung at Fairview Church of Christ. As an eleven year old, I’d looked around at the thirty or more people in our evening service. There were books to spare. I didn’t want my grandfather embarrassed. I wanted him to keep that book. I wanted to hear those precious melodies coming from the little back room he shared with a giant freezer and an occasional snake. I knew the elders were only trying to do the right thing. Such a dilemma.
Yet I knew it is wrong to steal. How I hated situations like this one. I still do.
I can’t tell you the end of the story because I don’t know what happened. I just know that everyone needs something – an outlet, a hobby, a fellowship of friends to get together with. I know how very blessed I am and am so thankful for remembering Pappy as he sang those old, old hymns in the back of our home when I was a little girl. Even from the stolen hymnal.

This article was written about 40 years ago when I was in my 30’s. I’d like to hear your take on what should have been done. I don’t think anyone at either church was wrong or malicious…just doing the best they had with the information they had. I think more communication and grace is always needed in every situation.