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Thanksgiving November 29, 1999 Dear Friends, We had devotion every Sunday morning before the church services began. Cousin Seth Elmer, or Sister Jessie Mae, or Brother Dimerson would lead the congregation in a verse or two of a hymn. Something like, "Guide Me O're Thou Great Jehovah, or "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" or "Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross" - sung the old way: in a minor mode, to a long meter. Then, as the Spirit of the Lord fell upon those assembled, the congregation began to moan (hum), swaying gently. Somewhere - in the midst of this - came a rapid click, click, clicking sound. Click. Click. Click. I can still hear the sound. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Just like it was yesterday. Click. Click. It was the sound of high-heeled Sunday-go-to-meeting shoes tapping against the hard wood flooring of the old church. It was the sound of worship made as the women began to tremble in the presence of the Lord, as the "train of the Lord filled the temple (cf. Isaiah 6:1)." In concert, the congregation continued to moan, high-heels continued to tap, and the people continued to sway. And in that "perfect" moment, someone began to pray. Bending on their knees, one of the old saints called forth a prayer. A prayer rising and falling and rising and falling in a fervent counter melody to the "moaning" of the saints. Rising and falling in key, as if orchestrated by some unseen conductor.
These were the prayers I grew up listening to, Sunday morning's at St. Paul. They were the sincere utterances of a people who never had much, but who were immensely and eternally grateful for each and every blessing which the Lord bestowed upon them. A people who were thankful. A people who praised the Lord with singing and with praying and, some, with the click, click clicking of their heels.
and His truth endureth to all generations." Psalm 100:4,5 In the Master's Love, The Preacher
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