I had rarely been in a church until I was in high school,.  This didn’t mean my spiritual house was not in order.  My father was very strict, especially in religious matters.

The reason I hadn’t been in any church was because we didn’t have one in our community.  What we had was country high school C-115, with the American flag flying high on a pole, above this pristine, white building which was not being used on Sundays.  Our community put it to good use by having Sunday School there every week.

We also didn’t have a minister, but we had Dora Twombley serving as a lay minister.

Every Sunday morning she rose early, milked the cows, gathered the eggs, fed the chickens and slopped the hogs, got all cleaned up, put her best dress on and walked the mile from her home to Sunday school.  What a beautiful neighbor and that beauty was far more than skin deep.  Her captivating voice was quite deep, reading the scripture and leading us in song with a tone that was on the low side of 2nd alto.  Some of those old songs still resonate in my mind as I visualize her standing in the assembly hall in front of all the people who came to worship. There were limits as to what she could do.  She could conduct a beautiful service that all ages enjoyed and learned from, but she couldn’t marry, bury or baptize.  So, one summer Sunday afternoon my Dad said we were going to Oak Grove after Sunday school.

We went to Oak Grove occasionally for picnics, swimming in the Middle Loup River and playing games and I was looking forward to a fun filled day.  But this day was different because we kept the same clothes on that we had worn to Sunday School.

As we approached the picnic area beside the river and looked across to the other bank there were maybe fifty people standing there, all in dark clothes, motionless and looking rather grim.  A disconcerting sight.   The seven of us piled out of our ‘32 Chevy and as we walked toward the river bank, we could hear the people on the other side of the river singing the old customary spirituals associated with rivers.  And then I saw two people in the water. With the serene river rippling gently around and above their waists, one submerged the other and I was witnessing a baptism for the first time.

On that beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon we watched for a while and then the singing resumed and what did I hear?  An old song, written during the days of slavery.

“♫  Oh brother, come on down, DOWN IN THE RIVER TO PRAY ♫”.