THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, November 19, 1995 TAG: 9511170921
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Editorial
SOURCE: John Pruitt
LENGTH: Medium: 74 lines
In the distant days of my youth, when rousing hymns were routine elements of our church services - especially on Sunday nights - we used to sing with particular gusto, ``Count Your Blessings,'' from the Cokesbury hymnal.
At morning worship, we used the Methodist Hymnal, which seemed to be filled with slower-paced songs and long-winded rituals that had little appeal to me and my fellow youths.
Somebody, somewhere, apparently had decided that extreme vigor was just not appropriate at 11 a.m., which probably helps explain memories of so many people doing so much nodding.
That didn't offend him in the least, one minister said to my Dad, whose head began to drop to his chest almost the minute he sat still. He understood, the wise pastor said, that watermen work hard all week, and that he appreciated their presence.
Anybody comfortable enough with the state of his soul to sleep in church suited him fine, the preacher said.
You may remember the opening phrases of ``Count Your Blessings,'' some of which are repeated in the chorus:
``When upon life's billows you are tempest tossed/ When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost/ count you many blessings, name them one by one . . .''
As mischievous youths, we substituted ``pillows'' for ``billows'' and wondered if it wouldn't be the greatest fun to be tossed in them, particularly if they were as soft as the handmade feather bed and down-filled pillows most of us had on our beds.
Even as I type the words to the old hymn, I hear in my mind's ear the full congregation of Swain Memorial United Methodist Church - every member singing as if the worshipers of Tangier Island were out to serenade the mainland, the nearest point of which is 12 miles distant.
And a heavenly sound it is.
We still sing the song, and there's still that specialness of recognizing that, even in the rough spots of life, there's a lot to be thankful for.
The hymn seemed to find particular favor with some of the older folks, including Capt. Harold Wheatley, Capt. Al Wheatley (Capt. Harold's son) and Miss Annie Parks.
The others are long gone. But Miss Annie, bless her heart, is as loyal - and probably as loud - at 96 as she was 30-some years ago, when we teens thought it just hilarious that she'd sing as she pinned clothes to dry on the lines in her back yard.
It might be raining torrents, but she'd sing so loudly as to practically shout, ``There is sunshine in my soul today . . .'' Or it could be the poorest part of the crabbing season, when families were wondering how'd they survive, and she'd be singing, ``I don't worry 'bout tomorrow/ I just live from day to day . . .''
She was the kind of singer who thought that louder and longer was better - just the kind to make ``good'' singers cringe. Yet there was, and still is, a real beauty in her voice - not so much in the sound but in the clear knowledge that it comes from a deep well of faith.
As Thanksgiving approaches, it's humbling to think back on my growing-up years and remember people like Miss Annie, who seem to regard every day as Thanksgiving.
It's humbling, as well, to recall how rough life must have been at times for her and to compare that - hand washing her children's clothes in water toted in a bucket from a well; cooking full meals on wood stoves that demanded constant feeding; hand sewing beautiful clothes - to our conveniences of today. She sang. And I dare complain.
Instead, why don't we just get out the Cokesbury hymnal and look up ``Count Your Blessings?'' If there isn't one handy, sing the words you remember and fill in the blanks the best you can. It's what Miss Annie does, and it's beautiful. by CNB