As we walked out of Dunleith Mount Ararat MBE Multi-Congregational Chapel, a tiny country church near my father’s Mississippi Delta cotton farm, Jaybird, my boyhood mentor and best friend asked, “Boy, why didn’t you sing in church today? You have always loved to sing Christmas carols.”
The old black man was right. I knew them all, having listened to Nat King Cole’s Christmas albums over and over again.
Certain aspects of childhood innocence should be preserved for as long as possible. One is, when you’re a kid, it’s all right to sing, even if your singing, at best, is little more than making a joyful noise.
Jaybird loved my caterwauling. Smiling proudly, he’d look down at my cherubic face, lifted to the firmament, gleefully wailing, “Joy To The World,” “Silent Night, Holy Night,” “O Little Town Of Bethlehem,” and other Christmas carols.
Once spoken, unkind words cannot be unspoken. One day, I was the first kid on the bus after school. The driver, Mr. Smith, who always sat behind Jaybird and me in church, said, “You love to sing, don’t you, boy?” Expecting praise, I chirped, “Yes, Sir.”
“Well — ain’t but one problem. You don’t sing — you wail.”
Anticipated compliments that are stinging insults instead hurt twice as much. One evening, while sitting with Jaybird on his porch, I told him why I didn’t sing.
“Wail?” His brow furrowed.
As we walked down the country road to church the following Sunday, I said, “Jay, please don’t say anything to Mr. Smith.”
“Don’t sing today,” he said. “Listen to Smith instead. After church, tell him what you think of his singing.”
I’d always been so engrossed in my own unmelodious utterances that I’d never listened to Mr. Smith. I discovered what Jaybird knew all along. His deep bass voice was absolutely beautiful, and I could tell 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. Glancing back as we walked away, I saw his eyes moisten.
On the walk home, Jaybird told me Mr. Smith was an ex-convict, and had spent several years behind bars. Afterwards, he became a loner, with no family or friends, but determined to be a law-abiding citizen, worked low-paying jobs without complaint, never asking anything of anyone.
Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, and as the congregation began to sing, I looked up at Jaybird. He nodded, and I joined in.
Halfway through “Joy To The World” an affectionate, encouraging hand patted my shoulder. It was Mr. Smith’s.
Jaybird taught me one of life’s most important lessons that day: Kindness toward others overcomes their unkindness toward you.
Even though my singing hasn’t improved after all these years, I still wail away every Sunday, and I still remember what Jaybird said that Christmas Eve morning.
“To the Lord, the voices of all His children lifted in praise are beautiful. Wail, boy.”
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)).
