Someone once told me when I was still living in my father’s house that I had a handsome voice and ought to shepherd it and not keep it to myself. After that I sang a little louder at our church and took a turn at a solo at my school. One night my first winter in Kentucky I thought to share that solo with my husband when that singing mood came upon him after his supper. He had not favored my story but I thought he might favor my song. I sang and reckoned it was fair crooning but Linus Lancaster’s fist came out so fast I thought an angel of the lord had flown down off his shoulder to bestow its wroth. Even after Cleome who was standing in attendance had helped me back to my bench and my husband had wiped his hand and recommenced singing I thought this. I thought it then and now here it still sits. Funny how you can once think a thing then never see the tail of it.
My father liked to say God lived in the lightning and look out below. He told it that in the battles he fought when there was lead or arrows in the air the boys used to holler, “He’s a comin’!” They get roused up when the fellow at church here sings “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory.” But I keep quiet when he’s at it. There’s different kinds of glory. There’s all kinds. I have seen some.