On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  “Thank you, God, for being with me today, for the wonderful service and sermon, for the friends and fellowship…and for showing me the woman who is to be my wife. That’s what you meant by ‘She’s the one for you.’ Right? For me? Much, much later, right? Great… Amen.” He rolls over on to his side, resettles his pillow, and tries again to find a comfortable position to sleep.

  Monday

  5 – An Early Start

  “BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG!” the cool iron of the bell vibrates, sending deep tones rippling across the campground. Angie awakens to the bonging bell the campground manager rings every morning at 5 a.m. It’s been the tradition from the early days when few folks had watches and fewer brought clocks with them to Zion’s Hill. Back then, the old timers just pitched tents and cooked outdoors over fire pits. The first tabernacle was a simple tent, just like in the Old Testament. Of course, not as elaborate as that one, with its acacia wood, bronze, and gold.

  Today, in the cabins, trailers, and cottages, and in the dormitory rooms, the Saints are slowly awakening to a new day. The Faithfuls soon will be heading towards the tabernacle for the early morning prayer service, as in the early days. The Brothers and Sisters of Love, as they were known when they first felt the call to establish an annual gathering of the colored Christians from the Midwest, always began the day together, praying for the place, the people, and the program.

  Through fervent prayer, these faithful followers of Christ invited the Spirit of God to guard their tongues and guide their hands and feet. They wanted to be and to do all that God called them to be and to do, and to demonstrate through word and deed what they called The New Testament Church.

  The founders of this denomination believed that God could infill the Saints with His Spirit and they, the blood washed ones, could be His witnesses at home, at school, as well as in the church buildings. The Faithfuls wanted these meetings on Zion Hill to be a fruitful time, a place for campers to respond to the urging of the Spirit and accept the call to be sons and daughters of God. For them, and for those who planned this 1963 gathering, the ultimate goal is the same: everyone will leave stronger, wiser, and more committed to living out the Word each day until they assemble the next year on these hallowed grounds.

  HER GRANDPARENTS RISE QUIETLY. Angie can hear them through the blanket that hangs between her bed and theirs. They gather their soap, wash cloth and towels, shrug into their bathrobes and slip on their house shoes, gingerly open the door, and peek out the hall hoping not to see a line in front of the communal bathrooms at each end of the corridor – men to the left and women to the right. Apparently things look okay because they both tiptoe out of the room and close the door, thinking they are not awakening Angie. She lets them think so, and turns over on her narrow cot, hoping to catch a short nap before it’s time for her to get up, do her own morning ablutions, and get ready to help with the children’s ministry that meets in the building down the hill next to the playground.

  Angie plans to become an educator and work in a secondary school but also finds working with the younger ones is fun. The children, aged five to twelve, meet with the children’s ministry staff for two hours Monday through Friday for a vacation Bible school, with songs, lessons, crafts and snacks. For three years now, she has assisted in this program that presents practical applications from Biblical stories and corresponds with the annual camp meeting theme. Angie helps the littlest ones cut, paste, and glue pictures and to create mementos to remind them of the lessons and show their parents what they’ve learned.

  She recalls the crafts she used to do. Macaroni collages, leather change purses, and those woven key chains that few kids ever got right – the skinny strips kept slipping loose! One year, they even tried making potholders with multicolored loops on those square metal frames. Today, as when she was their age, the kids either get a kick out of the artsy things or are frustrated to tears by them. Angie smiles as she gets up, prepares to get washed and dressed for the morning, and wonders what the stories and craft will be this year.

  Today, Angie has breakfast in her room with her grandparents when they return from prayer meeting in the tabernacle. They have fresh fruit and pastry bought from the little store in town at the bottom of the hill, washed down by tea made in the little electric pot Grammama packed in her suitcase.

  She cautions them to be extra careful to clean up the crumbs to discourage the critters likely to invade their sleeping quarters. Last year, Angie had dropped one of those packets of sugar. Apparently it popped opened, and a parade of ants met Angie one afternoon when she returned to get dressed for work. It had taken the rest of the week to rid the room of the raiders.

  Now, having dressed and eaten, Angie gives her grandparents a hug and leaves. She walks down to the back stairway at the far end of the dormitory hall, and then the few yards to reach the playground where the eager early arrivals await. Inside the building, the leaders gather, confident the children can entertain themselves on the swings and slides for twenty minutes or so until the grownups finish getting set up for them.

  Angie enters the small room that opens from the grassy knoll into the lower level of the three storied dormitory. The bottom floor is divided between this meeting room and the kitchen prep and store rooms under the second floor dining room. The third floor has sleeping rooms and communal bathrooms. Trapped closed-in-all year air greets her. Her nose twitches at the musty smell. Even though the director had already opened the windows that face the playground, there still is a dampness that makes Angie sneeze.

  Arranged in rows are grey metal folding chairs facing a battered pulpit that has seen better days. Every year this furniture goes into storage and every year it comes out looking older and more warn, even though the maintenance crew lovingly try masking the scars on the wood with oily Lemon Pledge.

  Colorful banners and Bible story posters brighten the space and Angie strolls around the room identifying each of them. Jesus feeding the five thousand. Jesus and the disciples on the Sea of Galilee. The widow preparing bread for Elijah. Moses in the bulrushes. Mary sitting at Jesus’s feet and Martha glaring from the doorway of the work area. A lady cradling a stack of purple cloth talking to some bald old man. Hmmm. Oh, that must be Lydia, the woman from Philippi. Paul commended her for letting him stay at her house.

  Angie stops and studies a poster of men pulling tiles from the roof of a flat topped building. Oh! Yes, that’s always been one of her favorites. The one where the men lower their crippled friend down through the roof so he could be healed by Jesus. She has always wondered what made them think to remove the roof tiles, and couldn’t imagine anyone going to that much trouble nowadays. In the rear of the room is set up for crafts; tables neatly stacked with art supplies, scissors and tape. On a side table are little tins of water colors, jars of water, and a Hills Brothers Coffee can bristling with fresh, supple paint brushes.

  Footsteps of the other leaders draw her attention to the door. Fred, the director, beckons them all to join him at the front of the room for prayer and last minute instructions. Angie can see through the window that the children are gathering in clumps. Younger children and those coming for the first time stand anxiously with a parent or older sibling.

  One pudgy little guy is wiping his eyes, and the woman with him pulls out a Kleenex and hands it to the boy. His shoulders tremble as he sniffles and sup-sups, unable to explain why he’d rather not be there. Then his mother stoops and whispers something in his ear, gives him a hug, and straightens up again. He wipes his eyes and nose with the tissue and looks up at her with a tearful smile. With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she directs him to the doorway.

  Fred and his wife greet him there and, with smiles, invite the rest of the children to come in. If it were not for the adults blocking the way, the older kids would trample the younger ones. Children returnees seem as eager to be on Zion’s Hill again as their parents.

  The dress code for campground attire applies to children as well. Women are not allowed to w
ear slacks or shorts here; little girls aren’t either. Girls arrive in lollipop tints and coordinated ice-cream colored skirts and blouses, some with print dresses that tie in the back. Most of the girls are crowned with ribboned plaits or ponytails held in place by matching barrettes clipped to the ends.

  On this opening day, the boys still are neat in navy, tan, and dark green shorts topped with a range of solid or striped tee shirts. By the end of the week there will be little evidence of such careful dressing. But today, the girls and boys sit upright in their crisp, clean first day outfits.

  Fred’s wife Sharinda plays the piano and their teenage daughter Cherise will lead the singing. “Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to Children’s Church!” she gushes with natural exuberance. “How many of you are here for the first time?” The little ones look around at each other and then, slowly about a dozen children raise their hands. “How many came last year for the first time?” Another nine or ten hands. “Oh, that’s wonderful! We’re so glad you’ve come back again. We think you’ll all be glad you came!”

  Angie looks to the left where the older rowdies sit slumped in their seats as though they’d really rather not be here, even though they nearly trampled the little ones through the door. Cherise continues her survey. “OK. What about the rest of you? Who’s been here three years or more?” Not surprising, this is the largest group with nearly two dozen raised hands. “Well, you’re the ones who probably know all the songs, and I’m depending on you to help us get started. How about, “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy Joy Down in My Heart?” They nod and grin, look around and stop. Can’t look too enthusiastic about church; but they are.

  Sharinda plays as joyfully as she can, doing her best to avoid the sticking keys in the lower register. Showing off, the older group sings with gusto, much louder than necessary, but they sing nonetheless. So begins another year of Children’s Church on Zion’s Hill.

  After Fred leads them in the Lord’s Prayer, one of the younger returning boys asks if they can do a motion song, “Deep and Wide”. It’s been a full year since some have sung and gestured to this perennial favorite, so they’re a little rusty. Angie watches them bumble through the motions. One hand, palm down hand raised above the head, the other hand palm up held waist high. Then, hands waist high, perpendicular to the floor. And, as though playing arpeggios on the piano, fingers wiggling from left to right, they gesture the words,

  Deep and wide

  Deep and wide

  There’s a fountain flowing

  Deep and wide.

  What fond memories arise as Angie recalls her own times in Children’s Church. She started coming when she was nine years old. Just as she and her peers put their whole bodies into singing songs with movements those ten years ago, so do the ones here this early Monday morning. They seem to be getting a charge out of seeing who remembers the most words and who flubs the fewest hand gestures. Not surprisingly, the older ones request the stand up, sit down song, “Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelujah! Praise ye the Lord!”

  Angie doubts the children have any more idea what they are singing about than she did at their age, but they do seem to enjoy singing just as much.

  Inevitably the older boys become boisterous and one bumps over a chair while scrabbling to sing faster than Cherise directs. She gestures broadly, expecting them to mimic her movements so that alternating sides remain seated on the “Hallelu” when the other side stands up on “Praise ye the Lord!” It’s a little raucous the first time through, but, thankfully no one gets hurt. There are no tears, and a great time is had by most. Next is a calmer song, “God is So Good” and then eager silence during the Bible story.

  Devoted as she is to being a positive Christian witness for these youngsters, if someone could see inside her head, they’d know Angie’s mind is not on the story being told by the youth pastor. Her mind is on Kenneth.

  She hopes he’ll come back to the grounds today and that they’ll have time to continue their conversation. She’d like to know more about his plans for the future, and she’d love to know if what she feels for him is a passing emotion or something that will grow.

  After clearing up the cups and crumbs from snack time, Angie tunes in to the announcements about the plans for Thursday, Children’s Day. During that evening service, the Children’s Choir usually sings two special songs that fit the theme of the year. It’s amazing what the children’s music leader can teach the youngsters to do in just four days.

  Fred tells them that Sylvia Jenkins will be leading the Children’s Choir. The regulars are excited. She’d worked with them last year. Sylvia is a talented musician and Marie, Sylvia’s sister, probably will be playing the piano. Charles Smitherman, who accompanies both the adult and children’s choirs works well these sisters. With the two skillful accompanists, Sylvia manages to keep the children’s choir pretty much in tune and on beat. Few in the audience even notice that the musicians cover for the little singers botching a line, peeking around the director to wave at their parents, or skipping to the next verse when the director had gestured a circle to signal the kids to repeat the chorus. Angie remembers and smiles.

  The children who’d been to previous camps will have reminded their parents to pack a white blouse or shirt to wear Thursday evening. The new ones somehow borrow the appropriate apparel from a friend, relative or they buy something from the dime store and will be ready on Thursday. While the director prefers that they all wear navy blue or black skirts or slacks, she will not keep a child out for wearing something different. Even the most devilish of the kids looks angelic up on the platform uniformly dressed in choir attire. Somehow, looking adorable in whatever they wear, songs they sing sound heavenly, too.

  Before landing a job in the ice-cream stand, it had been a part of Angie’s responsibility to meet with the children during rehearsal each afternoon and to help them line up for the service. Having sung their two songs, the children would march out and down to the lower auditorium where the leaders arranged to have popcorn and a film based on a Bible story. The kids remained there until their parents came by for them after the service.

  This year, Angie learns, the new song is “Servant of All” based on Matthew 20:26. It clearly reinforces the camp meeting theme this year and the stories that teach the children how Jesus did useful, practical things to help people feel better – like providing food for the hungry masses, healing the sick, or calming the sea for the scared ones. He even cooked fish and served breakfast to his disciples. The overall goal each year is to teach the children to be like Jesus. This year, to be willing to serve.

  Angie loves hearing Fred tell the Bible stories and watching the wide eyed children hesitant, but trying to comprehend the miracles of the Savior. The children probably believe the miracles are like bedtime fairy tales and television. If true, the incidents could have happened then and there, but not here and now. It would be years before some of these boys and girls recognize the myriad miracles manifested around them every day.

  It certainly took Angie a long time. But about yesterday evening at church, she still wonders Who prompted her to sit in front of Ken and then arranged a meeting through a mutual friend? Who provided enough helpers so she would not be needed at Children’s Church this year and therefore be free in the afternoons? Hmmm. Miracle? Maybe.

  Anyway, she gives God thanks for them. She also is curious about what will happen as a result. Will Ken come back this evening? Will their friendship grow or just peter out like all the ones with guys met at previous camp meetings?

  Once the children all have left, Angie heads back to her room to get ready to go work in the stand. She lays the outfit on her cot and grabs her toiletries. Morning service is in session now, so she probably will not have to wait to get to the shower, and she’s delighted to discover that the water is almost hot again after the drain on the supply from the morning. Standing under the cleansing spray, Angie recalls an incident with one of her customers last night. She was an older lady who, from her
comments, was a first timer attending with a friend who’d been coming to Zion’s Hill for years.

  ANGIE HEARS THEM CHATTING IN LINE about three customers back from the man waiting at the window. He comes all the time and always asks for two scoops of vanilla in a cup. She dips and serves him right away.

  The new lady gushes, “This shore is nice. Y’all got a Conley ice cream stand and ever’thing. It’s clean and neat. I don’t buy nothing to eat from a place that ain’t kept clean. Do they paint it ever year?

  Her friend nods.

  “I shore is glad it ain’t too hot out here this evening. Them mosquitoes would be eatin’ me alive. They ain’t bothering you, is they?”

  Her friend shakes her head.

  By this time there is just one person ahead of them and when Angie is handing the lady a single dip of black cherry on a cone, Angie hears,

  “You say they got the best ice cream around? I shore hope they got some of that Neopolee’tn ice cream. I shore love me some Neopolee’tn!”

  Her friend gently replies, “Oh, Mother Milton, you can’t get Neapolitan at an ice cream stand where they hand dip it for you. Neapolitan only comes in half-gallon boxes or in those little individually wrapped squares with strips of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. Here you get scoops of a single flavor! It’s absolutely delicious. I know you’ll love it.”

  “They ain’t got no Neopoleet’n! That’s the only kinds I like. I thought you said they got any flavor I kin think of. I’m thinking Neopolee’tn!”

  Mother Milton and her host now stand at the front of the line, both staring at Angie, both hoping they will get what has been promised. Angie looks at the younger lady and nods her head ever so slightly indicating, I’ll take care of this for you.