I liked those
green velvet curtains and the matching cushions on the pews. Both
were the exact color of an Arkansas pine in early spring, when it
takes on new life and puts forth myriads of tender buds, each a
creamy, candle-like shoot, lovely enough to adorn a sacred altar.
I gazed at the candles on the altar and at the open Bible,
crisscrossed with its narrow scarlet ribbons. The sight of that
Bible was always a pleasure. It brought back memories my old
church down at Drake Eye Springs-small, standing so calm in its
grove of aged white oaks.
That little church had everything a big church has-except a
steeple. But the colored folks up at Sweet Beulah Hill had a
steeple. They had built a tall belfry and spire for church, and
Sweet Beulah's bell could be heard for miles.
But it wasn't green curtains or candles or the memory of old
country churches with their Bibles and bells that drew me to this
large sanctuary. And it wasn't the quiet beauty of the room that
made me want to come. It was my duty to be in some church.
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