It seems like yesterday that I sang in Youth choir at my home church. You didn’t have a have a great voice to participate, everyone got to go on the end of year choir trip – usually to Florida, and that was our goal.
All sixty or seventy of us would pile into a Snyder Memorial Baptist Church bus and head down I-95. The air conditioner typically broke at South of the Border, two hours into our 20 hour round trip. Whew, the smells we endured in that vehicle.
Mr. Haynes was our director, he seemed old at the time. He was probably younger than than I am now. Dang.
His son, John, was one of my best buds.
We’d stop in small churches in South Carolina and Georgia to perform, our khaki pants and navy polos spotty from our massive trips to the all you can eat Pizza Inn buffets. How they made money with a bus full of high school boys is beyond me. I swear Frankie Farve could eat 25 slices of thin crust pepperoni.
At the time, I didn’t see that I was getting anything out of the whole experience except a ride on Space Mountain and a chance to sit beside (and flirt with) a couple of really cute girls for a very long time. But now I realize it was so much more.
One of the most valuable pieces I took from that experience is a love for old hymns. Today when our organist cues one up, my entire being fills with the spirit. Occasionally it even tops the sermon (sorry Ed).
This is one of my favorites:
Danny’s Book: Laughter, Tears and Braids