Abigail's August

While applying make up this morning, I was reminded of an old Negro spirit that was song at the local Baptist Church during revival.   I could hear the words whispering in the air as I looked at nearly fifty-year-old face…” don’t got over at last”, the words and their memory made me smile.

The humid southern nights of my youth for the month of August were spent at the local Baptist Church. There, young children would find their way to the mourning bench. Those on the mourning bench would spend the month seeking God then take the pastors hand acknowledging their acceptance of Jesus as their savior.

I thought of this as I looked at my aging face remembering the days of my youth as the sun began to spill into the French doors of my bedroom.  The words of the song reminded me that I was once a child growing up in the rural South in home with lots of sibling and a mom and dad who loved me.

The humid nights of summer that I spent every August were happy times and although they are in my recent past I haven’t forgot them and every now and then happy memories creep up and remind me that the women in the mirror was once a kid.

Abby