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rhythm, don’t it?), and my sister, Pam, played clarinet. Thanks to marching band, Walter and I even mixed sports and music together from time to time.
I was in the concert band for football and basketball in the winter and for baseball in the spring. Walter was also in the band for football when he played, though we were never on the field together in high school (whether running the ball or marching in the band). When I started playing football, I just marched with the band at halftime in my football uniform. When there was a parade for homecoming, I’d march in uniform during the parade. Walter did the same when he started playing football. And Momma would always be out there watching whenever Walter or I would be marching in the band. I think she liked that part even better than watching us play football. Looking back, I can see why. I mean, it must’ve been a sight to see a football player in a wet, smelly T-shirt and cleats out there marching and playing his instrument with a bunch of other kids dressed up like toy soldiers. Regardless, from Monday to Friday, whether it was sports, work, or music, Momma was behind it in some way.
And on the weekends, well, that was family time. On Saturday, there was always a family outing of some sort. And that usually involved work, of course. We’d sometimes visit our relatives out in the country. When we were there we’d help them pick greens and work in the garden before having supper and visiting with them. My parents knew the importance of strong relationships and helping others when they needed it, whether in times of emergency or just when a little work around the yard was in order.
Then came Sunday.
Sunday was for church. And I’m talkin’ the whole day was for church, okay? We went to Owens Chapel Missionary Baptist for Sunday school, regular church service, and then the evening service. No one dared complain about being there all day, and I wouldn’t have complained even without the threat of a whoopin’. I actually liked being there because I got to see a bunch of kids I didn’t get to see during the week and sing songs with family and friends.
Walter, Pam, and I were all in the church choir. That’s until they realized I couldn’t sing and had no business being in the choir. The powers that be soon viewed me as a “congregational singer,” and then it was just Walter and Pam representing the Payton kids. Walter had quite the voice, too. He often sang solo, and I’ll never forget the time he just kept repeating the same verse over and over. There he was, belting his little heart out….
“Bringin’ in the sheaves, bringin’ in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicin’, bringin’ in the sheaves!”
Again and again with the “bringin’ in the sheaves.” Even as his older brother, I couldn’t help but think Walter was sweet up there, repeating the hook, because he didn’t know the rest of the words.
Our church was the typical Baptist church. Everybody knew everybody, and that meant everybody knew everybody’s business. Sunday school, vacation Bible school, choir, life. We did it all together. That’s how church was, and that’s how it should be. Church where I’m from was nothing like some of the churches I see today, where you have a faceless and anonymous churchgoer who can’t be bothered to smile at anyone else, let alone get to know others in the church and be held to account for their spiritual walk. It seems walking into some churches these days is no different than walking into a Walmart. Everyone just comes in with their heads down, going about their business and leaving as soon as possible. That wasn’t our church. There was no way for that to happen with us. I got to know everybody. And I got to know the best part of “everybody” when we had revivals.
At the revivals, another church pastor would come in and preach. The sermons were good and all, but it wasn’t usually the sermons that got my attention. You see, along with the
I was in the concert band for football and basketball in the winter and for baseball in the spring. Walter was also in the band for football when he played, though we were never on the field together in high school (whether running the ball or marching in the band). When I started playing football, I just marched with the band at halftime in my football uniform. When there was a parade for homecoming, I’d march in uniform during the parade. Walter did the same when he started playing football. And Momma would always be out there watching whenever Walter or I would be marching in the band. I think she liked that part even better than watching us play football. Looking back, I can see why. I mean, it must’ve been a sight to see a football player in a wet, smelly T-shirt and cleats out there marching and playing his instrument with a bunch of other kids dressed up like toy soldiers. Regardless, from Monday to Friday, whether it was sports, work, or music, Momma was behind it in some way.
And on the weekends, well, that was family time. On Saturday, there was always a family outing of some sort. And that usually involved work, of course. We’d sometimes visit our relatives out in the country. When we were there we’d help them pick greens and work in the garden before having supper and visiting with them. My parents knew the importance of strong relationships and helping others when they needed it, whether in times of emergency or just when a little work around the yard was in order.
Then came Sunday.
Sunday was for church. And I’m talkin’ the whole day was for church, okay? We went to Owens Chapel Missionary Baptist for Sunday school, regular church service, and then the evening service. No one dared complain about being there all day, and I wouldn’t have complained even without the threat of a whoopin’. I actually liked being there because I got to see a bunch of kids I didn’t get to see during the week and sing songs with family and friends.
Walter, Pam, and I were all in the church choir. That’s until they realized I couldn’t sing and had no business being in the choir. The powers that be soon viewed me as a “congregational singer,” and then it was just Walter and Pam representing the Payton kids. Walter had quite the voice, too. He often sang solo, and I’ll never forget the time he just kept repeating the same verse over and over. There he was, belting his little heart out….
“Bringin’ in the sheaves, bringin’ in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicin’, bringin’ in the sheaves!”
Again and again with the “bringin’ in the sheaves.” Even as his older brother, I couldn’t help but think Walter was sweet up there, repeating the hook, because he didn’t know the rest of the words.
Our church was the typical Baptist church. Everybody knew everybody, and that meant everybody knew everybody’s business. Sunday school, vacation Bible school, choir, life. We did it all together. That’s how church was, and that’s how it should be. Church where I’m from was nothing like some of the churches I see today, where you have a faceless and anonymous churchgoer who can’t be bothered to smile at anyone else, let alone get to know others in the church and be held to account for their spiritual walk. It seems walking into some churches these days is no different than walking into a Walmart. Everyone just comes in with their heads down, going about their business and leaving as soon as possible. That wasn’t our church. There was no way for that to happen with us. I got to know everybody. And I got to know the best part of “everybody” when we had revivals.
At the revivals, another church pastor would come in and preach. The sermons were good and all, but it wasn’t usually the sermons that got my attention. You see, along with the
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