Singing Delta Dawn in Church

In the rural South of my childhood, and still today, “religion” is not merely something one espouses, a set of beliefs or doctrinal codes; religion is an integral part of one’s identity. There are few quicker ways to give a Southerner an identity crisis than to ask her to trace her religious upbringing. Having weathered my share of said crises, though, I can trace mine quite clearly. My sense of spirituality was most influenced by my Ninny, who proclaimed to be “Methodist,” but in actuality had her own eccentric blend of non-denominational, Pentecostal, Holiness, Church of God, holy-rolling fervor that was seldom matched in intensity, except perhaps by my Papa’s love of alcohol.

My other grandparents were “respectable” Methodists: church on Sunday morning, church on Sunday evening, and Wednesday night Bible study. There was Sunday School (complete with fuzzy felt Bible figures and dimes for the offering), a hymn, and a nice, gentle (at least as gentle as hellfire and brimstone can be) three-point sermon.

Every Sunday morning, I attended this small, staid, rural Methodist church with Grandmother and Granddaddy. As adults, my parents were strictly Christmas/Easter Methodists. Although shame — that most lethal weapon in every Southern Momma’s vast arsenal — would occasionally drive them to a Decoration Day or All-Day Singing. I wore lacy socks and black patent shoes, itchy lace pinafores, and face-stretching tight pigtails. I squirmed on polished wooden pews, knew the words of every hymn by heart, and fell asleep in my grandmother’s lap while the preacher droned his 45-minute sermon. 

Meanwhile, Ninny’s “church” occurred anytime, anywhere, and I spent the rest of the week traipsing the countryside as my Ninny’s tiny shadow. We attended every revival, gospel preaching, and prayer meeting she could find - from Oral Roberts and Jimmy Swaggart on the living room TV, to cold garages, empty warehouses, and one-room schoolhouses. I sat in rusty folding chairs, on plush, velvet-covered pews, and on cracked wooden benches; the jazzy syncopation of people speaking in tongues, punctuated by the rhythmic beat of women shouting, “Hallelujah,” “Amen,” and “Thank you, Sweet Jesus!” was the soundtrack of my childhood. No two services were ever alike because everyone just did whatever “the Spirit” moved them to do, whether pray, shout, dance, or recite Shakespeare; everything was precious when done in Jesus’ name.

At only 2 years-old, I was unlikely to remember which religious configuration was which. Not really a problem most of the time, but one chilly Autumn Sunday, the song leader of Grandmother and Granddaddy’s “respectable” church was absent because of a mysterious flu (known in common parlance as “a hangover”). This left a hole in the regular program and a minister who did not understand how to handle it. He was new, and young, and earnest, and uncertain with the tentative nature of a toddler separating from his mother. He was so young his voice still occasionally cracked. He approached the congregation as if we were a firing squad - face pale, eyes bulging, knuckles white from his stranglehold on the lectern. I am certain no one ever threw anything at him, but still, he reminded me of old Vaudeville performers desperately dodging rotten tomatoes. And he was about to make a very rookie mistake. He innocently asked if anyone in the congregation would like to volunteer to sing a song. (Good thing he became a minister rather than an attorney because in another profession his lack of specificity might just have been his undoing. As it was, it didn’t bode well for him.)

So up pops my pudgy little precocious fist into the air, eager for any chance to both garner some attention and worship Jesus. Apparently, the minister had made a subtle assumption that was lost on my 2-year-old intellect. He assumed that everyone would know he meant a CHURCH song, and in fairness, everyone besides me probably did.

Time took on the motion of molasses, thick and dripping; words warped and blurred, and the entire congregation seemed to realize at the same instant that he was pointing his finger at me. Thankfully, the shock kept everyone in their seats long enough for me to seize my time in the spotlight. I wasted no time, but began my performance immediately, standing there on the pew so everyone could see:  I belted out as fine an a cappella rendition of “Delta Dawn” that perhaps any worship service has ever witnessed (this speaks less to my singing talents than to the rarity of these types of events)! In my defense, not that I needed one, the “mansions in the sky” line automatically took this song from the country-western genre to the hymnal, because that’s what all the other hymns were about! 

I hit every verse and chorus; I even worked in the bridge and the key change: the whole shebang.

Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?

Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?

With arms spread wide and eyes cast to the heavens, I finished with a flourish, curtsied appropriately, and smiling beatifically, I awaited the applause of my adoring audience. Instead, a deafening silence rang throughout the sanctuary. Every single man, woman, and child in the building had stopped breathing, and time stood still. Then, like an old VHS tape wrenching from pause to play with a few second delay as the sound catches up, I began to hear the chatter of those around me. By this point, however, my grandfather sat with his face in his hands; my grandmother had whisked me up, thrown me over her shoulder, and made for the door followed by my aunts’ and uncles’ and cousins’ peals of hysterical laughter.(Did I mention we were related to every other member of the church?) 

The punishment I received (and bore with the stoicism, or just pure old mule-headedness, of one unjustly persecuted) resulted in at least two weeks of stripes on my legs. 

When my Ninny heard about the spectacle, she just smiled and said, “Well, Baby, was that the song Jesus called you to sing?” 

“Yes ma’am,” I somberly replied.

“Then good for you,” she chuckled, “’cause he musta been wantin’ somebody to hear a country-western song that mornin’!  Why don’t you sing me a little touch of that so I can hear what it sounded like?”

The hellfire and brimstone themes of childhood still occasionally haunt me, and my current spiritual beliefs are now both quite different and eerily similar. The energy, life, and sense of connectedness during the worship I witnessed as a child still ring throughout my being. And I still treat Jesus to the occasional a Capella performance of “Delta Dawn.”

Author’s note: I'm almost positive some readers won't believe my memory was that vivid at such a young age. I've been fielding the question my whole life. More than once I've had folks just flat-out tell me I couldn't possibly remember anything at that age. The memory is simply a memory that is only mine. This memory, and many others I've written about, in fact, were never talked about in my family, precisely because I had the audacity to embarrass my grandmother.

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