“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 love singing Christmas carols, why didn’t you sing today?”
The old black man was right. I knew them all, having memorized them while listening to Christmas albums over and over again, but a stinging insult from a man sharing our pew embarrassed me so painfully that I couldn’t sing. Jaybird loved my caterwauling, as I gleefully sang, “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, when I climbed into the bus after school, the driver, Mr. Smith quipped, “You love to sing in church, don’t you, boy?” Expecting praise, I chirped, “Yes, Sir.”
“Well, your singing sounds more like a hungry calf bawling for his mama.”
“Well, your singing sounds more like a hungry calf bawling for his mama.” I was stunned. Anticipated compliments that instead are cruel criticisms hurt twice as much. While walking from church to Jaybird’s house, I told him why I didn’t sing.
“Mr. Smith said my singing sounded like a hungry calf bawling for his mama.” Jaybird’s brow furrowed; I knew he was angry. The following Sunday, I feared Jaybird would confront Mr. Smith, and begged him to say nothing to him.
“Don’t sing today,” he answered. “Listen to Smith instead. After church, tell him what you think of his singing.” I was always so engrossed in my own unmelodious utterances that I never noticed anyone else’s singing, but discovered what Jaybird knew all along. Mr. Smith’s deep bass voice reverberated majestically above all others, and I knew he loved singing carols as much as I did. The last prayer ended, and Jaybird admonished me to be truthful.
“Mr. Smith, I’ve never heard a man sing as beautifully as you do.” He froze. As we walked away, I glanced back and saw tears trailing down his cheeks.
Later, Jaybird told me Mr. Smith was an ex-convict, having spent several years behind bars. Afterwards, he became a loner, a sad, impoverished old man with no family or friends, but determined to be a law-abiding citizen. He worked low-paying jobs without complaint, never asking anything of anyone.
Important life lesson: Kindness defeats unkindness
Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, and as the congregation began singing, I looked up at Jaybird. He nodded, and I joined in. Halfway through “Joy To The World” a big, affectionate, encouraging hand patted my shoulder. It was Mr. Smith’s. “Beautiful, boy, beautiful,” he said.
From then on, the ex-convict and I sat beside each other and sang from the same hymnal. That day, Jaybird taught me another important life lesson: Kindness defeats unkindness. Even though my singing has not improved, I still “bawl” every Sunday, and still remember what Jaybird said on that Christmas Eve. “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.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
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 love singing Christmas carols, why didn’t you sing today?”
The old black man was right. I knew them all, having memorized them while listening to Christmas albums over and over again, but a stinging insult from a man sharing our pew embarrassed me so painfully that I couldn’t sing. Jaybird loved my caterwauling, as I gleefully sang, “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, when I climbed into the bus after school, the driver, Mr. Smith quipped, “You love to sing in church, don’t you, boy?” Expecting praise, I chirped, “Yes, Sir.”
