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A Delta Revival Then I said, I will not make mention of Him nor speak any more in His name. But His Word was in mine heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones and I was weary with forbearing and I could not stay. Jeremiah 20:9 Each year at the end of summer, our church held its revival. I joined Good Hope Missionary Baptist Church when I was about twelve years old. I remember sitting on what we called the mourners’ bench,1 listening to the minister urging us to come to God while we were still young. There were about ten or twelve of us children, sitting there being preached to. While several joined during the first four days, many more waited until the last night to confess Christ. I also went on that Friday night. The minister reserved his best sermon for Friday night, his last opportunity to save souls. Here, he lingered a bit longer after his sermon, entreating the youngsters to come forward with his plea: “Will you trust Him tonight?” It was considered a real coup if the minister could empty the mourners ’ bench during the week he tended revival. This would most likely get him a return engagement, if not the following year, certainly in the near future. It was customary for children to give some kind of brief testimony as they came forward to shake the minister’s hand. It’s interesting how similarly the Holy Spirit worked in us, for most of us gave some slight variation of the “I A Delta Revival 106 felt a fire shut up in my bones” speech drawn from Jeremiah. Though I don’t recall what I said, it probably was some version of those words, which I had heard all my life. And I can’t say that my being moved at this particular time was because of the Holy Spirit or because of the urgency of Friday night, the very last chance to save my soul and avoid having to come back and go through the whole process again the next year. There was an occurrence on that Sunday, however, which seemed to confirm the matter, in my mother’s mind at least, that I had religion. It started raining on Saturday and continued early that Sunday morning. My mother had told me that the baptism would probably have to be postponed. As was the general custom then, we were baptized on the banks of the Yazoo River, which ran through the Buckeye. My mother assured me that being saved was the main thing and that I could be baptized later. In any case, if it continued to rain, the banks would be too hazardous, and no one could be baptized. I predicted to her that around ten o’clock that Sunday morning, the skies would clear and the sun would come out. I promised her that the baptism would take place on time. When the skies did indeed clear sometime around ten, she was amazed and took this to be a clear sign that her son had found the Lord. As I reflect on it today, I believe that my prediction was based partly on meteorological evidence I had noticed from similar situations in the past and partly on the sincere hope that all aspects of my coming-to-the-Lord might be consummated that single week. But then my mother’s joyousness had me convinced that indeed my prediction had come true through divine intervention. Now that the weather had cleared, the deacons and pastor gave their okay to go ahead with the baptism. For the occasion, my mother had purchased a beautiful blue suit for me, which I was to wear at the Sunday service immediately following the baptism. For the baptism itself, all the candidates wore white gowns with a white headpiece that made it hard to tell the boys from the girls. Two or three of us got dressed at the home of Brother Frank Anderson, one of the church deacons, as it was conveniently located between the church and the river. We then all gathered at the church to march the half-mile or so to the river, more quiet than any of us had been in our lives. Reverend W. H. Kingston, our regular pastor, was in charge of the baptism, the revival minister having completed his task of preparing us for the moment. Dressed in a black robe with black cloth headgear...

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