Sunday morning was always special at our house when I was growing up. I can remember how the field larks would sing as they darted back and forth in the morning sunshine. And how good the covers felt, and how we could smell the newly broken ground from the farms all the way into our town. We had hardwood floors, polished many times with sock feet, and they had a kind of inviting glow about them, especially after the air became filled with the sweet aroma of country fried ham from the kitchen.

We wore the best we had on Sunday. I can still remember the smell of “Shineola” and real shaving soap as we got ready to go to the church building. And I can almost feel how a starched collar felt on a new sunburn. I used to complain a lot about having to wear wool pants that “scratched,” but I lost all my sense of rebellion when Phillis Eakin or Twila Deen Dannel told me I looked “nice” (boys never looked “pretty”) between class and church. And there’s a graphic picture in my mind of how it felt to “come back” to Mom and Dad after having chased Lonnie Cooper’s black dog (the one with the ear that crooked over) back to his house as we walked to church on Sunday morning.

Bible classes were special. We had a little card with a picture on front, a short lesson on the back. But the most important thing on that card was the memory verse. How the class would laugh as you went through almost mortal torture trying to remember the next word! And I was always amazed at how Jay always knew his verse when I never saw him practice at home. After class we had fun! We chased the girls, wrestled our buddies and dreaded the sight of one of the parents coming to call us in to services. Some of the time we would bring a friend to church. He would be the “star of the show” between class and church. Later, he would ask why we didn’t have a piano or why we had the Lord’s Supper when it was six weeks yet to Easter. And do you know what? We knew! Yes sir, we could tell him why!

The services weren’t fancy, but there was a certain dignity about them that gave you a nice feeling abut being there. We’d begin with prayer. Brother Abey would lead. Then my Dad (everyone called him “Lefty”) would lead songs. He was good. Real good. And how we would sing! Nobody but my Dad and Alvin Ray and a couple of ladies (my Mom included) knew anything about music, but we made the rafters ring.

Some of the time we didn’t have a “regular” preacher. A man from Littlefield named Mitchell would come some and once in a while Billy Blackstone’s granddaddy would come. The old man was nearly blind now, but he could preach! He could paint a picture of hell that would scare the life out of you. Sometimes, somebody would come forward to be baptized. When it was all over we’d all gather around and, if it was like Nell Brown, or somebody younger, we’d all want to know how it felt to be baptized.

The Lord’s Supper was always special somehow. The table was always covered with a heavily starched cloth. The removal and folding of the cloth was almost a ceremony in itself. I remember that R.C. Strickland could do it best. And I have a vivid recollection of how the glass cups sounded when being replaced in the trays. I also fondly remember how a kid who came with Carl Ray tried to put his money in the bread plate when it was passed. We all about died.

There have been times in my life when I wandered away, but I always came back somehow. I think Sunday morning in Morton had something to do with that. I am thankful to God for my parents, my brothers, and Sunday mornings in Morton.

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