On Zion's Hill Read online

She values Grammama’s opinion, so Angie always returns to their tiny dormitory room not long after her shift ends, tiptoeing in to avoid awakening her grandparents. Even though on vacation, they go to bed early so they will be rested enough to get up on time for early morning prayer meetings. Her grandparents are among the regulars, the Faithfuls, who believe it is this sunrise meeting that establishes the foundation for successful services throughout the day. The seasoned Christians pray that the music, the teaching, and the preaching will draw sinners to Christ and Saints closer to the oneness of the Scriptures.

  AT LAST, IT’S SIX THIRTY. Stella, the boss, signals it’s time to close the stand, straighten it up, and then rush back to the dorm to get dressed for the evening service. This only gives Angie ten minutes to do twenty minutes of prep. This means she will arrive late and have to stand in the back of the rustic wooden tabernacle until the opening prayers conclude. She hates being late, but this evening she doesn’t hurry.

  Better to spend a little extra time getting dressed than standing restlessly at the back of the tabernacle, that barn of a building that is nothing like the one described in the Old Testament. No gold covered acacia wood or lamp stands carved with almond buds and pomegranates; no linen tapestry in blue, purple and scarlet.

  No. Here on Zion’s Hill, there is a massive bare bones structure with exposed beamed ceilings and whitewashed walls. One only sees such vibrant colors in flowers on the pulpit and in the clothes of the congregants. But, just as in the tabernacle of old, one senses the Spirit of God indwelling the hearts of the Saints, making His presence felt even in this unadorned building. Just as He is no respecter of persons, He is no respecter of places, either. Where two or three gather together in His name, He is in their midst.

  2 - The Service

  TONIGHT, ANGIE WEARS A NEW OUTFIT, purchased just for this week of meetings. Sure, she can’t compete with the fashion kings and queens, but she just couldn’t resist buying the suit and shoes. Anyway, she hadn’t paid full price. She’d been watching the price go down each day she passed the dress shop on her way to work. This creamy yellow one really was a good buy and is a good color for her deep brown complexion.

  She’ll look good in this two-piece ensemble with a soft yellow and white striped top and solid yellow pleated skirt – not too long and definitely not too short, or her grandmother wouldn’t let her out of the room wearing it. Angie chooses a pair of low-heeled white shoes already worn down some on the heels. She’s particular about bringing her nice dresses, but Angie utterly refuses to bring her best shoes only to have them scraped and scratched on the uneven gravel pathways. These grounds take a toll on any kind of shoes, especially the slender spiked heels that are the current fashion.

  Checking her stockings for runs, she finds none; glancing once more in the mirror at her hair, her flip hasn’t flopped. Adding just a hint of lip color and one pass of the red sponge with clove-brown powder over her face, she’s set to meet the night or knight of her dreams.

  Angie leaves, careful to close the dorm room door, wiggles the door handle, checks the lock and then strides down the hall and descends the exterior stairs that face the blank front wall of the tabernacle where the evening service has already begun. “No surprise,” Angie murmurs as she makes her way around to the back entrance where she will stand with other late arrivals.

  The voices of the choir and congregation nearly raise the open beamed building as they sing with equal gusto and devotion an old hymn of the church,

  Once again we come to the house of God

  To unite in songs of praise;

  To extol with joy our Redeemer’s name,

  And to tell His works and ways.

  To thy House oh Lord, with rejoicing we come,

  For we know that we are thine;

  We will worship thee in the Bible way,

  As the evening light doth shine.

  Everyone knows the words! That’s what’s remarkable about coming to camp meeting. Folks from all over the country – California, Texas, Alabama, Florida, New York, Virginia, Massachusetts – join the folks from the Midwest states for this annual summer event held in this little town of West Middlesex. No one needs songbooks – even though the choir members all hold them.

  These are the familiar songs sung each week in country, town and city churches, those congregations meeting in store fronts, clapboard buildings, and in brick and stained glass multiplexes. The words declare the mighty works of God, and the music challenges each to praise Him for His faithfulness as in the second song for the evening.

  What a mighty God we serve!

  What a mighty God we serve!

  Reigning now above on His throne of love,

  What a mighty God we serve!

  The tabernacle throbs with the songs of the Saints. The organist nearly slides off the stool, his shoeless feet stretching to reach the foot pedals; the pianist tilts her head in jubilation, both musicians worshiping the Lord with toes and fingers; the choir sways in rhythm, and the hands of the congregation rise in praise. Angie beams at the doorway, watching it all. Ah, camp meeting has begun!

  On her front, Angie feels the heat from the building; on her back, she shivers in the evening air gusting through the crowd bunched up behind her. She should have brought her sweater. The little boy behind her wiggles, trying to see around her waist and the teenager holding his hand jostles her, trying to see across Angie’s shoulder. Everyone is eager to get inside and join the singing Saints.

  Female ushers dressed in fresh white uniforms with navy trimmed handkerchiefs cascading just so from left breast pockets stand erect with one white-gloved hand held loosely at waist level behind their backs. Those latecomers congregating at the back entrance know they will not be allowed in or led to a seat until after the opening prayer that follows one or two congregational songs. So the group, impatient to enter, but knowing the rules, is willing to wait.

  Angie stands near the front of the growing throng and uses the time to peruse the audience, looking for empty seats. There are a few, and since she’s in the front, she figures she’ll have a choice. Which will it be? Near the back so she can slip out and get to the ice cream stand and prepare for the after service onslaught? In the middle where she’ll be in the thick of things? Or way down in front where everyone can see her new outfit as she steps in to that empty seat third from the center aisle? During the instrumental interlude of the second congregational hymn, Angie scans the hundreds of heads, searching for just the right place to sit, somewhat ashamed that she is considering that seat up front.

  Oh! Her eyes stop. There’s a cute head about ten rows from the back. Nice haircut. Curly with a hint of kink. Neatly trimmed. Nice. Seems a little reddish brown from here. Nice. Gingery skin tone. Broad shoulders, but not too bulky. Real nice!

  There’s a seat right next to him and another right in front of him. Angie contemplates the advantages of choosing each seat and doesn’t pay much attention to the minister walking to the podium to lead the prayer for the evening service.

  His voice rumbles across the bowed heads of the congregants, “O Mighty God, Beloved Heavenly Father, we come to You this evening with humble hearts….”

  But Angie is distracted by her impending choice, and thinks, If I sit next to him, he probably won’t be able to see me. On the other hand, maybe he brought a Bible and will offer to share it with me. I forgot to bring my own. Then again, maybe he didn’t or he wouldn’t. If I sit in front of him, he’ll have to look at me all through the service. Then when I leave early, I can get a good look at him as I tiptoe out to get ready to work. Hmmm. That may be better…

  “…and our Blessed Holy Spirit, we invite You to come and make Your Presence felt among us as we sing Your songs and hear Your Words from the man of God chosen to bring it to us tonight. We ask all this in the name of Your Precious Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. Amen and amen. You may be seated.” The minister raises his head and returns to the seat flanking the preacher for the evening. The musici
ans play softly as latecomers are ushered in.

  Folks behind Angie press in before the congregation is all seated. One of the national officers climbs the steps to the rostrum, takes a mike from the stand to officially welcome everyone to this forty-seventh annual week of evangelical services and to give a few announcements before the offering and special music from the choir. He intones the opening announcement given every year she’s come. She can almost say it by heart….

  “Remember, Saints, this is holy ground. For nearly fifty years, since 1916, we’ve met here on Zion’s Hill. We expect the Spirit of God to rule over this camp meeting. We want God to be glorified, the Kingdom to be multiplied, and Satan to be horrified. We come to worship and to fellowship in a place chosen, set aside, and kept for us by the sacrifices of the many Saints who’ve gone on before. We expect each one here to dress and behave as becoming the Saints of the Most High God. Follow the Golden Rule and follow the signal of the evening bell to be quiet at night. …

  “Yadda yadda yadda.” Angie follows the uniformed usher down the aisle where Cute Head sits.

  Next to or in front? Next to or in front? She nearly bumps into the usher whose gloved hand directs her to the seat next to Cute Head. But Angie’s decided on the seat in front of him. With the anxious crowd waiting to be seated in just a couple of minutes, the usher acquiesces, steps aside, and beckons to another latecomer to take that seat next to the guy.

  She plops into the end seat, hoping Cute Head doesn’t think she’s clumsy. Lord, let this plan work without me looking silly.

  The choir rises at the direction of the national choir director. It’s the first night of camp meeting for this volunteer choir of folks who sing in their home churches. They’ve had just one rehearsal that afternoon and are not yet in sync, so their rising straggles a bit tonight. By next Sunday, after a week together, it will be executed with military precision.

  Angie recognizes members she has seen up there every year and can identify which of the ancient sopranos will be unable to hit the high notes on the anthems the choir surely will sing later in the week. There never are enough men to balance the six to one ratio of females to males, so the choir director puts the men in the middle in hopes that they will be heard a little better in that central location. They’d be closer to the three microphones standing at the sturdy wooden podium ready for the minister of the hour. Though simple in structure, the tabernacle’s acoustics really aren’t too bad.

  This is not a choir of trained voices. Few read music; fewer have ever studied it formally. All, however, love to lift their voices in song and exemplify the Biblical imperative, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.” Thankfully, the noise usually is melodic – at least by the end of the week.

  The experienced director is talented and insightful and usually chooses songs most of the congregation already knows. She invites guest ensembles or soloists to sing the specials for the services early in the week. This gives her time to get the choir shaped up – noting those who are still in voice, which new singers have a voice, and what anthems they all can manage.

  Each year the camp meeting director includes at least one anthem from the traditional repertoire and will have sent a letter to the churches from which the regular choir members come, asking them to look over the planned songs before arriving on the grounds. The choir director at Angie’s home church reads the letter to them in May, just after the Easter cantata.

  Most of the choir members – old and new – sing by ear. So they wait till they arrive on-site for choir rehearsal in hopes that the person next to them will have learned the songs and they will be able to catch on. Returning choir directors know this, and just in case the old-timers haven’t learned the more difficult songs, they save the really demanding repertoire for the weekend when the trained singers will be there to help carry the sections.

  Yes, there’ll be a little screeching in the soprano sections because the choir directors never make the older ladies stop singing just because they have difficulty reaching or holding the notes.

  In fact, this is one of the things Angie likes about camp meeting. Everyone is welcome to participate wherever he or she thinks is a good place to serve. She can’t keep from smiling when things do not always go as smoothly as they could have if only those who were perfect were on stage or in the choir. Oh well. Let them “Make a joyful noise…” By the end of the week, the sounds will be more harmonious and in sync. But this is the first night, and the singing is certain to be somewhat ragged, but authentically passionate, nonetheless.

  FOR THIS OPENING SERVICE, the pianist and organist are together and play an upbeat introduction to a campground favorite. “Be Strong and Valiant for the Truth.” For some reason, this song always gets a bunch of Saints up on their feet and walking the aisles, hands raised and heads thrown back in praise or on parade. When younger, Angie always wondered how spirit-filled the people were because so many regulars seemed to “get the Spirit” at the same time and when they had on really sharp outfits.

  Tonight, seeing them out there testifying and giving God the glory with their gestures, she recalls her first year working for Stella and bursting into the ice cream stand to start her after-service shift.

  Angie chucks her purse under the shelf and grabs an apron, her back to Stella.

  “Did you see them?”

  “Who?”

  “The folks dancing in the aisles during that song. They always seem to get the Spirit at the same time.”

  “And?”

  “And they seem to only do it when they have on their glad rags.”

  “Most people dress well for services on Zion’s Hill.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But, they always look like they’re more parading than praising.”

  “Who are you to judge?”

  “I’m not. I’m just saying. Some of them look more like they’re styling for the Saints than shouting to the Lord.”

  Angie, oblivious, doesn’t even notice that Stella has not joined her gossip fest as others on the grounds usually do when the subject of the old folks and their worship styles is raised. “I mean. Don’t you think they look rather ridiculous? Women flopping all around and everything, clothes hanging funny.”

  Once her apron is tied, she washes her hands and turns toward Stella. Angie, obviously amused by her detailed descriptions, continues “Sweating men, running around. Bellies bobbling over their belt buckles. Some of them just look so funny!”

  Stella stops Angie with a stare.

  “Are you the fashion police?”

  “Well…no.”

  “One of the Holy Trinity in a position to judge?”

  “No…”

  “Do you know what their lives have been like or why these Saints may be shouting or walking the aisles?”

  “Um…no. Do you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Stella reprimands, looking Angie directly in the eyes. “They come to Zion’s Hill for fellowship and revival. And more genuine Christians will be hard to find.”

  Angie throws back, “So….how do you know this?”

  “Well, I’ve known many of them most of my life. One of them out there this evening is my cousin.” Chagrined, Angie looks away in shame.

  Stella explains, “My cousin’s had a tough year with family and finances. She’s just grateful she could even travel this year. I imagine the same can be said for several of the others.”

  Angie, silenced by guilt and by fear, then mutters. “I’m sorry”.

  “You know, Angie, tittle-tattle is unbecoming of you as a Christian. I know you’ve taught to love, not judge.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she murmurs. Guilt-ridden for being judgmental and fearful that Stella may fire her for talking bad about her relatives, Angie stands with bowed head, but says a little louder, “I’m sorry.”

  She looks up when Stella says, graciously “Apology accepted. Now, let’s get to work. The Saints are coming and they expe
ct their ice cream served with a smile.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Angie smiles with relief.

  ANGIE’S STILL WORKING ON IT, but she has become somewhat less judgmental since that conversation, and less inclined to join in gossip about the Saints. Who knows their stories and why certain songs get them up and walking the aisles? Only God can discern whether they’re really shouting or showing off in service. And anyway, who is she to judge?

  This First Sunday, the volume of the old song swells, and members of the congregation sway and clap to the beat. And though she doesn’t yet understand why this song evokes such an emotional response from the older folks, she sings as though she does. She’s learning,

  He is our Rock, our Tower high,

  And to the meek He giveth grace;

  A shield He is to them that trust,

  The joy of those who seek His face.

  For now, Angie is just relishing being on Zion’s Hill and hearing the Saints sing with fervent joy. What’s that? She hears a rich tenor coming from behind her. Ah… he can sing. Good. Another point for him. He can sing and he knows the words of the old songs. Maybe he’s a Christian or at least been brought up in the church. He must be since he’s here on the first night.

  Most of those who come on the last weekend seem to come for show. Or at least that’s what Angie believes based on her experience coming so many years. It’s on the Friday and Saturday that the sharp dressers – male and female – arrive in their later model cars that look as though they’ve been run through the car wash just before heading up to Zion’s Hill. The people who come this early, Angie rationalizes, usually are more serious about the religious aspects of the meeting and less concerned about outward appearances. Or so she thinks, based on her experience coming so many years. But, who is she to judge?

  Maybe Cute Head will be okay. Maybe this will be the guy she’ll spend time with this year. But of course, she has to meet him first. She’d really like to see his face too. He certainly looked good from where she stood in the doorway and the quick glance at him just before she decided to sit in front of him. What if he was already dating someone else? That would certainly put a damper on the week. There are slim pickings this early in the week. Or so she thinks, based on her experience of coming to Zion’s Hill for so many years.