The Good Reverend Hezekiah Daniel Thomas, Jr. had grown up with the thunder'n roar of olden-time country preaching in his ear. His Daddy, the Right Reverend Thomas Sr., had been the preacher in our little County for as long back as our collective memory could reach. He had hollered, wept, coaxed, and pled his faithful flock, along the righteous path, for the pass'n of three generations.

Rev. Thomas, Jr. had never doubted that, after his Daddy had given up the ghost, he would assume his place behind the pulpit - and neither had the congregation.

It was noticed the the son didn't seem to have inherited the het-up conviction that consumed the Daddy; however, the congregation comforted themselves with the thought that Junior would find his own voice eventually and, in the glow of that promise'n thought , faithfully provided the necessary funds to educate the young man in the way of the cloth.

In due time, Rev. Thomas, Sr. took his place in the Heavenly Chorus, and the little flock turned their eyes toward Junior.

To their dismay, the new Rev. Thomas was a pale whisper of his Father's oratorical resonance.

His preaching style, while well meant, was quiet, and his delivery was that of calm reason, rather than hell and damnation.

There was universal dismay! After all, everyone knew that to chase the Devil out of a small, southern church you need the vigilance of a loud, roar'n preacher with $5.00 words in his coat pockets!

However , as often happens round here, our community slowly absorbed the sadness and worry of have'n to accept yet another change in tradition.   In fact, some even came out and avowed that they had come to appreciate Junior's habit of keep'n his own council.

Ol' Mr. Jackson said he appreciated the lack of a Monday morn'n lecture bout snore'n in the back pew. Mrs. Everette appreciated that the request for new choir robes was approved without a fervent sermon bout faith and frugality. And the head of the building committee appreciated just be'n left the heck alone!

By the time the annual Dinner on the Grounds came round, Rev. Thomas was such a not-there person, that Maisie Philips was shocked when the quiet man approached her in the post office.

" Rev. Thomas has volunteered to help!" she squealed, to a room full of dropped jaws, at the dinner plan'n committee meet'n. Delighted, she reported that the shy man had offered to churn the ice cream - a job at which his Daddy had always excelled.

Now, the fellowship hall, in our little church, is in the basement with a couple of doors that open directly out onto a wide, covered concrete porch which overlooks the oldest, mossiest section of our ancient cemetery. When they started lay'n people out back there, Thomas Jefferson was a boy and the tower'n sycamores were just young slips.

These days, it is a secluded place... good for catfish skin'n, romantic trysts , and a cool place to churn ice cream on a hot, June Sunday afternoon.

The young preacher showed up, at his assigned time and station, ready for the task. It was not unnoticed that he was a fine cut of a figure in khakis and a crisply ironed, checkered button-down.

After wander'n through the tiny congregation, given out compliments for the pretty tablecloths, and shake'n the Deacons hands, he headed on down to the back porch and stuck his head in the door.

Delighted to see their churned, the ladies immediately herded him out to the edge of the porch, plunked him down on an old wooden stool, and surrounded him with the churn, ice, salt, towels, bowls, and, spoons.

"Now you just holler if you need something, y'hear? " Mrs Everette smiled and twittered at him... "and mind that dasher, it's a little on the loosy-goosy! " she sparkled as she disappeared back inside the kitchen.

Two hours later, people started to line up for the loose, creamy ice that is particularly loved by Tidewater folk. They found their quiet minister diligently turning the handle. Surprised, the ladies started to chirp bout why he was still churning, why the dasher was still move'n , and fussing cause of all the gargantuan sweat stains on his pretty shirt!

Rev. Thomas calmly wiped his forehead, took a drink of a proferred glass of sweet tea, and carefully pulled the long, thin axle rod up and out of the silver canister.

Without a word, he picked up a bowl and ladled into it a spoonful of cold vanilla soup, graced with a chunk of side ice.

The silent line of the devoted came, one by one, to receive their portion of soup.

Finally, he poured the last of the white mess into a bowl... turn'n to a horrified young Maisie who had been frozen at the door, grip'n the forgotten dasher to her chest... he lifted the bowl in her direction.

Gesture'n for her to come closer, he silently exchanged the bowl for the dasher.

People slurped the soup and crunched the milky ice... one fella shared his with Junior. While they cleaned their bowls, a gentle, contented murmur floated in the early even'n air.

That next Sunday, The Right Reverend Thomas gave a short, serious sermon on the unify'n value of forgiveness - and a good joke.

The congregation stayed awake and listened to every word - all aware that the churn dasher rested, in plain sight, on top of the pulpit.

It rests there still.



©Naomi Marshall 2017