A Packet of Old Letters Bound by Red Ribbon
In Their Tryst Room
VI. TESTAMENT OF SONG
Jackleg
Mother of the Church
The Holy Ghost Power in Me
Blood in the Pews
VII. TESTAMENT OF A JOYFUL NOISE
Senior Year
I Must Tell Jesus
Sister Morrisohn and Sister Elwyn Parker
Like Unto Ishmael, Like Unto Moses
I Am One of the Faithful
VIII. TESTAMENT OF FIRE AND LAMENTATIONS
The Leap
This Do in Remembrance of Me
I’ll Meet You in the Morning
The Years of Borning and Begats: The Faithful
The Years of Borning and Begats: Founders of the Faith
Favorite Hymns & Performances
The Years of Elwyn Parker and Sister Morrisohn
The Lord of Travel
Many thanks to my brothers: Cameron Allen, Edgar Allen, Sherwin Allen; and to my brothers-from-a-different-mother: Jason Murray, Kevin Eady, Gene Durnell, Geoffrey Philp, Leejay Kline; and to the greatest teachers a young writer could ever hope to have: Les Standiford, Lynne Barrett, John Dufresne, Meri-Jane Rochelson, and James Hall—thanks for being there at the birth of this baby.
I give my thanks as well to those who gave generously of their time to read the parts or the whole, or who listened attentively while I read it to them: Lou Skellings, Ken Boos, Andrea Selch, Janell Walden Agyeman, Joseph McNair, Josett Peat, Elena Perez, Ivonne Lamazares, Robin Steinmetz, Joseph Steinmetz, Lisa Shaw, Tiina Lombard, Ellen Milmed, Edward Glenn (your comments on the “Pinkeye” section were great—sorry that passage didn’t make the final cut, LOL), Ariel Gonzalez, Sally Naylor, Jesse Milner, Ellen Wehle, Elizabeth Cox, Gonzalo Barr, David Beatty, Marlene Naylor, Anthony Thomas. Your patience and your wise words are much appreciated. I listened … most of the time.
To Johnny Temple, words cannot express my gratitude, but all I have are words. Thanks, Johnny. You make writing books fun again.
I never really wanted to play the piano, but it seemed that even before I touched my first key I could.
When the old kindergarten teacher left to go have her baby, the new teacher made us sing: “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream …”
“Elwyn,” said the new teacher whose long name I could never remember, “why aren’t you singing with us? Don’t you know the words?”
Yes, I knew the words—just like I knew the words to “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”—I had memorized them as soon as the old teacher, Mrs. Jones, had sung them to us the first time. But I could not sing the words. Mrs. Jones knew why I could not sing the words but not this new teacher.
“Elwyn, why won’t you sing with us?”
I could not lie, but neither was I strong enough in the Lord to tell the teacher with the long name that singing secular music was a sin. So I evaded. I pointed to the piano and said, “Mrs. Jones plays the piano when we sing.”
“But I can’t play the piano,” said the new teacher. “Won’t you sing without the piano?”
I had assumed all adults could do a simple thing like play the piano, so this amazed me. “I’ll show you how to play it,” I said, crossing the room with jubilant feet.
“Can you play the piano, Elwyn?”
“Yes,” I said. Though I had never touched a piano key before in my life, I had observed Mrs. Jones at school and the ministers of music at church and had developed a theory about playing I was anxious to test: high notes go up and low notes go down.
After a few tries, I was playing the melody with one finger. “See? Like this,” I said. My theory was correct.
The other kids squealed with excitement. “Let me play, let me play,” each cried.
What’s the big deal? I wondered. High notes go up, low notes down. It only made sense.
But the new teacher had to give each one a turn and I directed them: “Up, up, now down, down. No. Up, up more.”
When it came to be my turn again, I played “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” The new teacher got the others to sing the tune as I played.
I had but a child’s understanding of God’s Grace. I reasoned that if I sang secular words, I’d go to hell, but I had no qualms about playing the music while others sang.
I was young.
That day should have been the last time I played the piano because in truth my fascination with the instrument did not extend further than my theory of high and low tones, which I had sufficiently proven. No, I did not seek to be a piano player. I assumed, most innocently, that I already was one. Should I ever be called upon to play a tune, I would simply “pick it out” one note at a time. This was not to say, however, that I was not interested in music.
On the contrary, music was extremely important.
Demons, I was certain, frolicked in my room after the lights were turned off. At night, I watched, stricken with fear, as the headlights of passing automobiles cast animated shadows on the walls of my room. Only God, who I believed loved my singing voice, could protect me from the wickedness lurking in the dark. Thus, I sang all of God’s favorite tunes—hummed when I didn’t know the words—in order to earn His protection. When I ran out of hymns to sing, I made up my own.
I am Your child, God. I am Your child—
It is real, real dark, but I am Your child.
God, I believed, was partial to high-pitched, mournful tunes with simple, direct messages. God was a brooder.
What did I know about His Grace?
What did I know about anything?
Ambition. Envy. Lust. Which was my sin?
I did not want my neighbor’s wife. I did not want his servant. I did not want his ass. There was, however, a girl. Peachie. Brother and Sister Gregory’s eldest daughter.
I had known her all of my life, but when she walked to the front of the church that Easter Sunday, sat down at the piano, and played “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?”—my third-grade heart began to know envy and desire.
Peachie Gregory did not pick out tunes on the piano. No, she played with all of her fingers—those on her left hand too. Such virtuosity for a girl no older than I. And the applause!
That was what I wanted. I wanted to go before the congregation and lead them in song, but all I could do was play with one finger. I had to learn to play like Peachie.
An earnest desire to serve the church as a minister of music, then,