On Zion's Hill Read online

  WORKING IN THE CENTRALLY-LOCATED ICE CREAM STAND, Angie has had a good view of the campgrounds. From that vantage point, she can study the crowds as they gather, looking for the young people her age, and spy out which girls might be her competition and which guys they’d be competing for. There always have been more girls than guys.

  Angie comes for the full week because her grandparents always do, and they invite her to come along. She’s in college now and has a job working for the father of one of her classmates, but he’s granted her time off with pay. That’s a blessing, but since she’s stashing away money to pay tuition this fall, Angie really doesn’t have extra for a vacation that costs much, so why not come one here more year? She gets along well with her grandparents, and they seem to like having her around. So here she is a sophomore in college, during her only time off for the summer, at camp meeting on Zion’s Hill.

  Few males in their late teens and early twenties choose to attend the whole week of services. Most arrive in time for the Friday evening through Sunday morning services; the attendance on the grounds nearly trebles. But the ice cream stand also is busiest then. If Angie hasn’t connected with someone by Friday morning, it will be too late. So, Cute Head may be her chance to get a jump on this girl/guy thing before too many other young adults arrive.

  Angie isn’t looking for anything permanent in a relationship. She fully intends to get her BA before getting her MRS. So, not looking for anything serious, it still would be fun to have a handsome young man to spend time with during this week of vacation, and maybe even to correspond with during the school year. She’s a good pen pal and has been exchanging letters with lots of people she’s met at regional youth meetings and state conferences.

  She even maintains a written relationship with an Air Force guy as a favor to her uncle, the airman’s pastor. She’s been writing for nearly a year now. But, she doesn’t expect anything to come of that. Anyway, she’s only seen the guy once. He is nice enough looking, but she hadn’t felt any chemistry when she met him. Sure, it’s been fun hearing about his adventures up in Greenland where he is stationed, and he expresses interest in her adventures at college. But Angie doesn’t sense a future with that guy. Cute Head might be different. Back to the service, Angie. Back to the service.

  ANOTHER MINISTER STRIDES to the wide wooden stand in the center of the platform and makes the call for the offering. This is the first night, so he’ll just ask people to “give as the Lord has given to you”, reminding everyone that “The Lord loveth a cheerful giver.”

  It’s not until the second weekend when the grounds are full and the tabernacle overflowing that the person taking the offering will plead for people to “dig deep and give sacrificially” and ask those who have “purposed in your heart” to give $100 or more to lead the way in a march for the Lord.

  Sometimes the financial officers will count the offering during the service, and if enough hasn’t been raised to meet the expenses for the week, one of the more charismatic ministers will make an entreaty for more money. But this is the first night, and the offering time runs pretty smoothly and efficiently.

  The ushers, men militarily erect in navy suits and white gloves and ladies similarly gloved, proceed down the aisles. They pass shiny white paper pails that look like Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets without the red and white logo of the colonel. Perhaps the size is to indicate how much they hope to collect in this first evening offering.

  A dapper saxophonist stands to play an offertory song. The organist and pianist soon join him in a worshipful, soulful rendition of “How Great Thou Art”. Angie sways as the talented horn player mimics the human voice teasing out emotional responses and sensory memories. She stiffens when she notices some of the older folks pursing their lips and shaking their heads in disapproval when the horn player plays some bluesy notes and jazzy progressions. These folks frown on crossing the line between worldly and Christian music.

  But Angie is moved by his interpretation of the lyrics:

  When through the woods and forest glades I wander

  I hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees,

  When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur,

  And hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze:

  She’s taken on wings of his emotive playing to early mornings on Zion’s Hill when the sun is just cresting the mount. The music evokes the scent of trampled grass glistening in the morning dew and the whiffs of breakfast bacon from the first floor kitchen.

  Musical notes educe the misty morning, still and quiet. She hears the chirp and chitter of little brown and white wrens scrounging around the plants edging the narrow path up through the copse overlooking the dormitory section of the grounds.

  Viewing a movie screen inside her eyelids, Angie sees the faithful senior citizens sleepily walking from their cabins, cottages, and trailers or emerging from the second floor dormitory rooms, tightly grasping the stainless steel tube railing that guides them down the steps.

  The Faithfuls gather at the tabernacle for early morning prayer services. The Saints are praying on the way, sensing God in the silence of the morning.

  DRAWN BACK TO THE SERVICE in the sanctuary, Angie finds herself singing with the saxophone, proclaiming the greatness of God, the creator of it all. “Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, How great Thou art…”

  Bluesy or jazzy, this saxophonist is speaking to Angie’s heart. Musically, he convinces her to put more in the offering plate than she’s planned. She usually decides ahead of time how much she’ll give for the whole week of meetings and doles her money out a little each night so she can give something every time, but not exceed her preplanned limit. Oh well. She can hold back a little tomorrow and get herself back on track. Tonight, it seems right to give what she has in her hand. This guy really is good.

  The usher reaches for the offering bucket from the lady in the opposite row at the same time the bucket on Angie’s side gets to her, so she just turns around and hands hers to the person behind her. It’s Cute Head! She gulps and nearly drops the half-filled bucket. He’s as good-looking from the front as he is from the back! She swerves back to the front, clasping the handle of her purse, breathing more rapidly.

  He looked at her. Does he think she’s as good-looking from the front as from the back? Will he want to meet her? Will he come up to the grounds during the week, walk her up to the concession stands and buy her a fish sandwich? Will he sit next to her in church and share his Bible? Oh she hopes so. She really hopes so. Maybe this will turn out to be a good week. Maybe it will. Why wouldn’t it? Back to the service, Angie. Back to the service.

  It’s time for the special music. She’d seen the Jenkins sisters earlier today. They’re her age and have been singing duets at camp meeting since elementary school. They sing with poignant expression and their voices blend in unison and in harmony. Will it be them tonight?

  Angie likes the sisters, but often is a little jealous because no one asks her to do solos like they do at home. Last summer, she rationalized to her friend, Lily, “Well, I don’t really have time, anyway. I have to work while I’m up here.” From working together on grounds for years, Lily has been friends with Angie, and just nodded her head. She’s felt the same time crunch.

  Like Angie, Lily’s family doesn’t ask her to help with gas for the car trip or contribute to the rent of the dorm room they share. But she is responsible for her own meals and other personal expenses. This means she has to bring cash with her or work when she arrives on Zion’s Hill. Thankfully, she and Angie have been able to get a job on the grounds for the past five years or so.

  Working leaves no time for rehearsing anyway. To be honest, the current music staff here really doesn’t even know Angie. Anyway, she’d probably be too nervous and either would start off on the wrong key or forget the words halfway through – even with the music in front of her, she sometimes loses her place. “Truthfully, Lily, I do like listening to good music during services and working between them suits me
just fine. Most of the time.” Lily would just nod, knowing Angie prefers friends to agree with her.

  FOR SEVERAL SUMMERS, she and Lily worked in the dining room. That was fun, most of the time. The same girls usually came back each year and they got along pretty well. And though they didn’t earn a salary, or even tips, they did get all their meals for free.

  Brother Willie Patmington was in charge of all the dining services. A martinet, he took no mess off of anyone. “You are working for the Lord,” he’d expound and insist that everything be done just right. “Waiters,” he’d admonish, “you show you are Christians by your love. So,” he demanded, “come ready to serve love with each meal.” That included arriving on time, every time, all fired up and ready to go with neat aprons, clean hands, and hair entirely stuffed into those hairnets. Who can look cute in a hairnet?

  Thankfully, waitresses got to eat before the dining room opened to the public, so they didn’t have to worry about the kitchen running out of food before they got theirs. That was a good thing. The not-so-good thing was being assigned to work downstairs in the kitchen. Working there, they came to understand the expression, “hot as Hades”!

  The most unpleasant job down there was not scrubbing the pots and pans. It was cutting the butter. Every summer, the newest girls got that job. Angie remembered how each was given a five pound block of butter to cut into neat one-half teaspoon square pats, place them on those tiny crinkle-paper circles, arrange on cooled cookie trays and store in the refrigerator until needed. It was one of those impossible tasks that had to be done. And, despite the slippery knives and buttery slick hands, the girls were expected to cut even slices into consistent size pats and complete the task before the block melted in a gloppy smear across the cutting board.

  Working downstairs brought alive that despicable story about ‘Lil Black Sambo. Many a day, she felt as though she were running around in circles getting hotter and hotter and would very well melt into a puddle of grease.

  Later, promoted to working upstairs in the dining room, however, Angie enjoyed her job much more, especially interacting with the diners. During the early part of the week, before the grounds got crowded with the weekend campers, the diners were pretty patient. Folks who stayed in the cabins, trailers and cottages sometimes cooked their own meals. But those who rented in the dorms frequented the dining room, and by the end of the week were good friends among themselves and with the waitresses.

  Angie’s grandparents, though, would eat only one meal a day there. They’d bring food from home for breakfast and supplement it with purchases at the little grocery in town. Sometimes they’d get a snack from one of the food concession stands lined up across the way from the tabernacle on the dirt road behind the ice cream stand. But for dinner, they’d come and sit at a table near her station. She glowed each time she served the older folks in the spirit of loving service that Brother Patmington instilled in them, whether or not the customers expressed words of appreciation in return. Thankfully, her grandparents always did. They were proud of her.

  Few people complained about the taste or the size of the servings. Sister Mattie Callon, the head cook, and her longtime colleague, Sister Sarah Mae Dillard, knew how to order for, prepare, and serve tasty meals to the masses. Consequently, the same people returned year after year, confident the meatloaf would be tasty, the potatoes fluffy, and the collard greens, English peas or string beans nicely seasoned and not too salty.

  Everyone looked forward to Wednesdays when the ladies served fried chicken. Frying chicken for hundreds can be taxing in the basic facilities of the campground kitchen, even for a veteran staff. So Sister Mattie didn’t even try to do that on Sunday when there could be even more diners expecting a hearty meal after morning service. For that day, Sister Mattie and her crew served roast turkey and dressing with the trimmings. Angie figured they planned a meal like that for Sundays because the staff could prepare so much more with less last minute work. They were an experienced team, but they worked together only once a year.

  The girls who served in the dining room were expected to arrive early to set the tables with salt and pepper shakers, napkins and silverware, get the cold drinks poured – usually red Kool-Aid – and to set out the cups for hot tea and coffee. They had to position the chairs just so around the tables and, when there were fresh flowers in the fields near the campgrounds, to cut and arrange them in the bud vases so the hall would look special without an extra expense.

  About half an hour before the dining room opened for business, the helpers went through the line and got their own meal, ate it quickly, tidied up and were ready when the doors opened. A grown-up usually collected the money so the teenagers would be free to rove around the room, helping the diners as they arrived, carrying plates for those who needed it, and being alert to spills and calls for extra napkins. This had been Angie’s summer job for several years.

  Two years ago, though, Stella approached her to work for her in the ice cream booth. Stella offered a nice salary, so Angie eagerly took the job. She now earns enough to buy some of her meals from the concession stands and still comes out with money left each summer.

  She also gets a good view of what is going on all over the grounds without appearing to be nosey. She had liked serving in the dining room, but now that she is older and in college, she likes even better having cash left at the end of the meeting, rather than going home well fed, but broke.

  So she has returned again this year to work with Stella. Too bad, though. Working in the stand cuts down on the time she has to stroll the grounds and to sit and talk with friends. Still, a college student needs cash, and the central location of the ice cream stand has turned out to be a good place to scope out the guys. Still, Angie wonders if she will ever be able to make it to the service on time. When she hears the preludes, her hearts starts pumping. She’s eager to join in and always tries to guess who’s been asked to do the specials.

  NO, THE JENKINS SISTERS aren’t singing tonight. Ah, it’s the Boisman Sisters, a young ladies’ quartet from the minister’s congregation. Once the sisters are arranged behind the microphones, the soprano steps up to the center mike, singing a cappella, the first clause of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” The alto comes in on the next; the second soprano joins in a rich sweet tenor, and the final singer comes in on the fourth clause in a surprisingly deep, rich alto singing the baritone line.

  Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

  Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;

  Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

  Call for songs of loudest praise….

  The final lines they sing in four-part harmony.

  Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,

  Mount of Thy redeeming love.

  On the second stanza the tempo slows dramatically as the alto leads, singing melody. Her sisters join in, adjusting the rhythm dramatically to reflect the images in the lyrics.

  …Jesus sought me when a stranger,

  Wand’ring from the fold of God;

  He, to rescue me from danger,

  Interposed His precious blood.

  The sisters sing the third stanza in typical hymn meter. And then the organist plays an interlude, raising the key one half step, escalating the tempo until all four voices erupt in unison the “Hallelujah!” All stop.

  Gasps ripple across the congregation. Then hands and hallelujahs rise throughout the tabernacle and congregants sing in affirmation “I have found it!" and then sit back, listening as this talented quartet of young ladies finishes the song, softly and reflectively, preparing the listeners to receive the Word that is to come.

  Hallelujah! I have found it,

  The full cleansing I had craved,

  And to all the world I’ll sound it:

  They too may be wholly saved….

  An old hymn sung a new way affirms gratitude toward God the Father, Christ the Savior, and the sweet Holy Spirit.

  The singers return to their seats as another minister on the rostrum
rises and walks forward to introduce the speaker for the evening. He’s unfamiliar. But Angie’s not surprised; the popular, well-known preachers usually don’t speak until the weekend when the crowds are bigger.

  FOR OPENING NIGHT, the program committee schedules the older, more sedate preachers who appeal to the old timers who come early and stay for the whole week. Or, the young untried preachers given an opportunity to see how they do before an eclectic national audience. The old guys are good, though. They typically deliver traditional sermons – scripturally sound, spiritually nutritious, but seldom delivered with the energetic physicality of the weekend preachers. Those ministers are as sought after as famous entertainers and are as charismatic as motivational speakers. Their messages are just as good - just delivered more theatrically.

  Those weekend speakers woo the crowds in ways that the weekday ministers didn’t, couldn’t or wouldn’t. That’s okay. Though still a teenager, Angie has come to appreciate thoughtful exegesis. Hearing exploration and interpretation of religious texts presented during the week gives her more to chew on after the service than some of the excitement and drama on the weekend. Though still in her teens, Angie looks forward to gaining new insights about her Christian walk.

  The weekday speakers – even the real old ones – provide the meat and vegetables of the Word needed to sustain one in the day to day challenges of living a Godly life. Of course, dessert on the weekend has nutrition as well and sends listeners home with a sweet taste in their mouths. Doesn’t the Psalmist say the Word is like honey?

  She smiles recalling the antics of one particular preacher who jumps around a lot to show how the Spirit of God keeps one fully alive in the Lord. As expected, he’s preaching Friday evening. For now, though, she focuses her eyes to what’s going on the rostrum.