Back to Bethel

It was not a church building. It was a schoolhouse. As I remember, it was painted white. There may have been a dividing curtain inside the house so that when school was in session, the teacher of the early grades could separate her classroom from the teacher and children of the upper grades. A schoolhouse during the week, but on Sunday, it was a church house and its name was Bethel.

Each Sunday, my mother, brother, and I drove several miles of dirt roads to get there, but we felt it was important to make the trip. We didn’t always have the same preacher, just whoever was available at the time. Sometimes, the minister would drive from as far away as Tulsa to talk to this small congregation, but he was sincere and he felt it was important.

We heard God’s Word preached , we listened, we learned, and we got to know some dear people who worshipped there.

An old upright piano sat against one wall and each Sunday, I sat down on the bench and accompanied the singing. As I remember, the hymnal was a gray-covered paperback. It was filled with the old hymns, Standing on the Promises, The Old Rugged Cross, Just As I Am. The small group loved to sing and needed an accompanist, and, although I always had a case of stage fright, I did know how to play.

The experience of playing the piano at Bethel Church was a long time ago, but it left a lot of warm memories and I’m grateful.