On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  “Lil mentioned you’re in college, Angie. What are you studying?” Delighted that a man is interested in her and not going on and on about himself, she tells him about her goal of earning a bachelor’s degree in English and then pursuing a career as an educator. She hopes to teach in high school. He listens, avidly probing her to expand her reasons for wanting to teach and then commending her for her choices.

  “What about you, Ken? You’re going to school in State College. Why’d you pick Penn State? What are you studying?” And so the conversation goes. It’s a while before she realizes that they have drifted away from the group and are walking companionably along a path toward her dorm. When Angie sees where they are, she also notices the time and reluctantly brings the conversation to an end.

  “Ken, it’s been great talking with you, but I promised my grandparents I’d come in soon after finishing my stint in the ice cream stand. They worry when I’m out much later. Yeah, I know, I’m a grown-up, but to them I’m still their little Angela Jeanette. Anyway, I am a little tired. This is my first day, and my shoulder aches a little from all that dipping and scooping.”

  “Yeah. Sure, I understand. Well, will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I guess so. But not in the morning. I promised the couple who heads the children’s ministry that I’d be there early tomorrow to help with check-in. It’s sorta like Vacation Bible School.”

  Too bad they have to cut short their time together, but her grandparents won’t sleep soundly until she comes in. And she really is pooped. She doesn’t want to slip up and start talking gibberish and drive Ken away thinking she is a dithering idiot.

  Ken seems to understand the situation. He courteously releases her from the conversation, says good night at the bottom of the dorm stairway, and walks down the hill toward the parking lot. She stands there for a moment, watching his upright stride, the left arm swinging a little more than the right, and his long legs, revealed to be just a little bowed as his heather grey slacks flutter in the wind. She notes the slight tilt of his head and his assertive gait. He’s comfortable with himself and knowledgeable of the terrain. No stumbling along the gravel paths for Ken.

  “Not bad,” she exclaims aloud, “Not bad, at all.” Deep in thought, Angie starts up the wooden steps, grabbing the handrail once she nearly trips on the third stair. Yes, she is tired, but she also is eager to get washed, in bed, asleep, and up on Monday to see whether or not he keeps his promise to seek her out when he returns to the campgrounds.

  4 - Reflections

  “NOT BAD,” Ken decides as he walks down the hill to his car, his mind still on Angie, the handsome dark-skinned woman he’s just met. As is often the case with Negroes, men and women describe each other in terms of skin color, complexion and hair texture. The women in his family run the gamut.

  His grandmother, Leona, a feisty bittersweet chocolate, with springy grey hair she keeps crushed under soft brimmed hats; his older sister, Joann – mocha fudge round-faced. She wears her short wavy hair sometimes pulled severely back in a ponytail of sorts, more often covered with a full curly wig or extended with a hairpiece of one color or another. Thia, the baby of the family, caramel toffee face framed by such dark brown hair that one would call it black were it not for the reddish highlights. She styles hers in a neat pageboy or gently pulled back in a fancy barrette at the nape of her neck. His mother. She’s the creamy tan of white chocolate and sports her wavy reddish brown hair cascading to her shoulders. Like his grandmother, she usually wears hats – a wide-brimmed one to protect her delicate skin from the sun or a colorful turban to corral her mane of hair. The myriad women in Ken’s life are as different as the gourmet chocolates in Daffin’s Chocolate Factory.

  Semi-sweet chocolate Angie would fit right into this rainbow of browns. He noticed she straightens her ear length hair, but he isn’t sure if it only grows that length or if she’s had it cut that way. With her deep brown skin, her natural hair probably is coarse and kinky, the kind that would look great in a close-cropped Afro he’s starting to see that Negro students on campus are sporting. Whatever style she chooses, she’d look fine; Angie seems to be the kind of lady who will always be well-coiffed.

  KEN HAD PARKED his stepfather’s Corvair in the lot closest to the entry gate. Didn’t want to be caught in the maelstrom of after service traffic. Lots of locals come for the first Sunday night of camp meeting and would be anxious to get on the difficult-to-navigate two-lane dirt road back down to town. No streets light yet. He’d better be careful. There’d better be no dings anywhere on the surface of that little car. His step-dad is particular about everything he owns.

  “Hard to come by,” he always says. “Gotta take care of your stuff, Ken. Not easy to replace it if you don’t keep it up. I work hard and I like nice things. Work hard. Buy smart and take care,” he’d repeat, wiping each of his tools with an oiled cloth before returning them to the racks in his storage shed. His stepfather is careful about everything. Especially this year-old Chevy he’d gotten at a good price. His very first brand new car. Good. There it is. By the time Ken gets down the hill, his is one of only three left in the lower lot.

  No need to worry about traffic now. Didn’t think he’d be hanging around that long after service. Could have parked anywhere. He pulls the key from his pocket, opens the door, and sits there a minute before starting the engine. “Not bad at all,” he muses. Maybe coming to services each evening will work out after all. It certainly has been stimulating so far.

  The service was pretty good. He’s surprised. It’s been years since he’s heard those old hymns sung that way. Sounds different when there’s a choir of one hundred singing with a full congregation joining them. There’re more in this choir than in his whole church most Sundays.

  He turns the key to start the engine, and then remembers to buckle the retro-fitted seat belts. If someone asks, he’d say the preacher’s delivery was a little dry, but his message did speak to him. God just wants Christians ‘to be’ – to be His. Feast on His Word, let it become a part of them and they’ll become more like His Son. Just be.

  He twists around to look out the back window, checks his side mirrors, and then eases the car over the ruts in the once-a-year dirt parking lot.

  THE MESSAGE TONIGHT SOUNDED DIFFERENT from what he thought about what it means to be a Christian. His pastor makes it sound like a list of rules to keep. Ken planned to consult his Bible for this idea of relationship instead of rules. He pulls onto the road and steers down the hill thinking about the sermon and thinking about Angie and what he’d heard the Lord say about Angie.

  His fellow counselors during youth camp had all expressed differing opinions about hanging around another week for camp meeting. Most said nothing much happened until the second weekend. Things got interesting when more men and women their age arrived. He smiles as he recalls Joey, one of his campers, promising to introduce Ken to his older sister when she comes up next weekend.

  “SHE’S REALLY GOOD LOOKING, Brother Ken,” Joey brags. “Sorta tall, like you. You’ll like her. She’s got a great job as a legal secretary. She’s ready to get married. You ready to get married, Brother Ken? Y’all’d make a great couple. She’s a Christian, like you.” Walking together from the camp cafeteria, Joey looks up at Ken to see how he’s responding to the description of his sister.

  “She don’t waste her time dating guys she’s not likely to marry. She’s not seeing anyone right now. I know she’ll like you too. I told her all about you when I wrote home last night. She’s coming next Saturday.”

  Ken just nods, saying nothing. By this time they’re near the playground, and Joey, seeing some of the guys shooting baskets, bolts off to join them, calling back, “Bye, Brother Ken”.

  Fourteen-year-old Joey has been a challenge all week. He’s been raised in the church and coming to summer camp for years. He’s a “know-it-all” who responded neither to Ken’s attempts to keep his attention nor his efforts to spark interest in digging into God’s Word.
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  The kid just likes being the center of attention and thinks being a clown will make him popular with his peers, especially with the girls. Ken never knew what monkey business would arise when the girls joined the guys at the evening meeting for singing and then a message from one of the camp directors.

  THE FINAL EVENING OF CAMP, THOUGH, each of the counselors meets alone with his or her own group of eight or nine campers. Sitting around the flickering fire in the area, Ken’s guys gather for final Bible study. Joey and all the boys seem more contemplative, surprisingly reluctant for camp to end.

  They’ve sung all their favorite rousing songs and settle down a bit. Though the guys say they’re “hokey”, one of them always requests “God is So Good” and “Kum Bah Yah”. After a short prayer, he invites the boys to recount ways they’ve experienced God’s goodness during the week. At first the boys wriggle and snicker.

  Restless. Reticent about testifying to peers. They fidget and look around, but avoid making eye contact. No one wants to be the first to speak. Ken begins humming “Kum Bah Ya” and prays that the boys will sense the presence of the Spirit, and equally important, know they are safe sharing their experiences in this setting. He’s spent the week creating a nurturing environment to earn their confidence in him, their counselor, and to develop it in one another. Each day, he noticed more and more of them listening attentively to the morning Bible lessons. Comfortable with silence, he awaits their responses.

  Yes, Brother Ralph, the camp director provided the counselors printed materials they could use with the campers, but he encouraged the counselors to prayerfully consider what God wanted them to share with the specific boys and girls assigned to them. Brother Ralph urged them to adapt their lessons based on the counselors’ growing understanding of the youngsters they had. Be honest. Be authentic. The campers would believe what they teach is true if the counselors reflect on their own walks with the Lord and freely weave in their own personal insights and experiences.

  Ken has told lots of stories about his being an athlete and an airman in the United States Air Force. That always got their attention. He wants the boys with whom he has worked these two weeks of camp to understand that they can stand up for right, even in the midst of pressure to go along with the crowd doing things they all know in their hearts will be displeasing to God. Ken has experienced the strength of God’s Spirit, has found living the Christian life to be preferable to what he’d tried, what he’d seen, and what he’d heard from his fellow airmen and basketball teammates.

  Whenever it seemed right – during a lesson, on the playing fields, at meals, or just goofing off with the guys – he shared his stories. He told of those up days when he felt he was living according to his understanding of the Scriptures and the down days when he gave in to temptation. He also told them that he has sought and received God’s forgiveness. He strove to engender an understanding of the breadth of God’s mercy towards everyone, those committed to Christ and those who had not yet made that decision. Now, on this last evening of camp, he wants his guys to feel equally confident about sharing their own stories. Patiently, he waits.

  JOEY WIGGLES AND GIGGLES. STOPS --- STILL --- and stares at the boy across the fire from him. Unexpectedly, Larry, the top athlete in the group, begins speaking, quietly, cautiously. His head is bowed. He’s looking at dirty Converse shoes, talking a little hesitantly. Then, looking around at the curious questioning faces of his campmates, he confesses.

  “God, He been good to me this week.” Their puzzled expressions and eager eyes encourage him. He sits up straighter and raises his voice so more can hear.

  “I know ‘cause I feel safe here.” This gets their attention. The campers lean in, curious about what this new boy will reveal. Spurred by their response, Larry goes on. “Even when Joey there teased me about missing that last shot in the game yesterday, I know he be kidding. He wasn’t trying to hurt me.”

  “Ah, man. You fun to tease,” Joey jibes.

  “You also a bad ball player. All us wanted you on our team, didn’t we guys?” chimes in Pete. “He real bad, ain’t he?” They all nod.

  “Yeah, Lare, you play pretty good!” Joey concedes.

  “Thanks, man. Hearing y’all tell me that is real different for me. It ain’t like that at home.”

  “What you mean, Larry? It ain’t like what at home?”

  “Y’all seem to like me. Y’all make me feel welcome. This is my first year at camp. I figured all y’all be knowing one another from way back.” Retracting a bit, he admits, “I was scared to come. But I was even more scared to stay at home.”

  Of course, the guys perk up to hear more. Larry continues.

  “My Moms got married last summer. To a guy with two boys older than me. We supposed to be a blended family, but we not. They won’t let me in. Sam and Ricky, I mean. Most of the time they act like I don’t even exist.” Eyes leaking tears, Larry keeps talking, words tumbling out, thoughts he’d kept locked up for months.

  “They daddy’s house is bigger than ours so Moms and me moved in with them. They got three bedrooms. Sam and Ricky had they own room before Moms married they daddy. When me and Moms moved in, Moms, of course, moved in they daddy’s bedroom. I coulda shared a room with Ricky, ‘cause he’s the youngest, just a year older than me.

  “I was looking forward to having older brothers. But it ain’t happening. Ricky moved in with Sam, and Sam hates that. He hates me like it’s my fault he don’t have his privacy no more.” Larry swipes at tears, but feeling them pulling out his story, he goes on.

  “It’s miserable when they daddy and Moms ain’t home. Sam and Ricky talk bad about my mother and how she couldn’t take care of me and her when Pops died. Now, they blame us for messing up they lives. They say they had they dad to theyselves until my mother come along. It all changed even worse when I came into the picture.”

  “How come, Larry? How’d they think you make things worse for ’em?”

  “They thought having a mother would be a good thing. She’d cook and clean for them and they’d have all the time they wanted to run around and hang out with they friends. Before that they had chores. They daddy had made them take turns doing the cooking and stuff. You know, cleaning up they rooms and washing they own dirty clothes. They thought that’d be over when they had a woman in the house.”

  “That wouldn’t happen in my house,” Pete laughs. “My mother don’t do none of that stuff. She makes my sister do it.” The other guys shut Pete up with their eyes.

  Larry seems to have missed Pete’s remarks; he continues, “But no. They still got to do chores. They say they daddy don’t make me do enough. It was true. At first, he didn’t make me do much.”

  “Musta been good for you. Having a nice house and no chores. Huh? Okay. What happened, man?”

  “By the time they daddy put me on the work schedule, Sam and Ricky already hated me. They take turns picking on me. Most times they work together at it. Not just calling me names, but ganging up on me and stuff. You know, locking me out of the house. Not letting me get into they bathroom when they know I gotta go bad. Telling me I can’t come in they room or use any of they stuff.”

  “Sounds like your house, eh, Joey!” Joey shushes Pete. The others, riveted, shush Pete as well.

  “When the parents are around, Sam and Ricky treat me okay. But they daddy and my Moms both work. Sam and Ricky and me, we home alone a lot. I’m mostly alone by myself though. They don’t take me with them no place.”

  “Are you surprised? They older than you. Anyway, ain’t you got any friends at school?”

  “Nah, man. I go to they school, now. They don’t let me be friends with them at school neither. They act like they don’t know me. The guys hunkering around the campfire fidget, trying to get comfortable on the uneven log seats. Still, they keep their eyes on Larry, listening intently as his story outpours, emitting unexpected empathy for their fellow camper. Encouraged, Larry keeps talking.

  “I thought it would be better w
hen school started, but it ain’t. It’s hard, guys. Real hard. I don’t understand why nobody likes me at this new school. Goin’ to they school is horrible. The kids there act like I got a disease or something. I think Sam musta told all the kids to not like me.”

  The campers don’t seem to understand, and it shows on their faces.

  “It wasn’t like that at my old school. I was popular there. Moving to this new neighborhood and going to high school for the first time is just awful. I don’t know nobody. Everybody there hates me,” Larry concludes.

  Balling his hands so tight his knuckles stand at attention listening to the pain, Larry keeps talking. Ignoring his trembling voice, the young man sounds relieved to be revealing his aching heart. “My new brothers ain’t nice to me or nothin’. They take things out of my room when I ain’t there and then act like they don’t know what I’m talking about when I ast about it. And they lie and tease me when I tell on them. Moms and they daddy think I’m the one lying! They say I’m jealous and tell me to grow up. I ain’t never had no brothers and sisters. I just don’t understand it.”

  But his campmates around the fire do. They sit nodding their heads in sympathy. Several boys identify with being a younger sibling; some know about being unpopular; others know about being part of a blended or a dysfunctional family. They listen wholeheartedly. Larry unloads his burden, and he’s telling their stories.

  Ken remains silent and lets the Spirit do His work.

  Tears trickle off Larry’s cheeks, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed about it. More details tumble out. Knowing he has their attention and sympathy, Larry sits up, gesticulating broadly, as though to release more tension. “At home Sam and Ricky act like I ain’t even there. They won’t let me in they room or nothing. We be sitting in the family room watching TV or something and they talk about me, never to me. It’s awful! Naturally, they don’t never do this when our parents is home. Just when we home alone. Ricky, he walk by me and sock me in the shoulder. If I say something, he turn his back and ast,