“To the Lord, the voices of His children lifted in praise and joy are beautiful, no matter how they sound to others, so keep doing what Smith said you do: Bawl, boy, bawl.”
As we left the tiny country church near Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm, my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird asked, “Son, as much as you love to sing Christmas carols, why didn’t you sing today?”
The old black man was disappointed. He loved my caterwauling, as I sang gleefully, “Joy To The World,” “Silent Night, Holy Night,” “O Little Town Of Bethlehem,” and other carols.
Once spoken, unkind words cannot be unspoken. A few days before, as I entered the school bus, Mr. Smith, the driver who always shared our church pew, quipped, “You love to sing in church, don’t you, boy?” Expecting praise, I chirped, “Yes, Sir.” With a frown and stern look, he said, “Well, your singing sounds more like a hungry calf bawling for his mama.”