We have just finished with a Spring Revival at my home church this week. As I sat in the new blue padded, comfortable chairs, I looked around at the new fresh walls of the sanctuary and especially the most magnificent cross hanging from the stained glass windows framing the altar. And as I gazed in awe at the beauty of this God’s house, I was lost in the memories of other revivals in 
long ago years that I had shared with my parents and grandparents. My parents were members of a very small Baptist church, Salem Baptist. I was raised in the Southern Baptist tradition and after much searching and praying, I am now a faithful member of a Congregational Methodist Church. I will have to tell you that my heart and soul are still ingrained with the religion in which I was raised and practiced for over 50 years. However, after much prayer, I am convinced we are all striving for the same Home.
Revival preachers are somewhat the same and expound the message in rather the same way as they did in older days of revival. I do not believe there is as much pounding of the pulpit and shouting as there used to be and not as many “Amens” and raising of hands are heard or seen from the worshipers. I am, nevertheless, still very verbal and “hand waving.” Our church we attended as a child was a one-room, hard-benched, planked wall, well-worn holy place. There was no air conditioning or electric fans, only the funeral home fans with wide popsicle stick handles with which everyone fervently fanned their faces. The windows were opened wide and I cannot tell you how many times bugs found open mouths to fly into. In the cold weather, we kept on our coats as there was only a small wood stove nestled in the corner for heat. There was no practiced choir and sometimes not even a piano. Several different men would take turns standing in the front leading the old time gospel songs as we praised and sang. We had no praise team; we were all “the praise team!” Oh, and there were so many amens, halleluiahs, shouts of joy and hand raisings that it felt sometimes that little white building was rocking on its blocks. These early believers knew how to praise. As time has passed, we have become more reserved and self-conscious in our acts of worship and adoration and we just sit and listen. I love to hear the loud voice of an amen or hand clapping of a zealous believer.
One other thing that I remember so well about our little church was that it had no baptistery. Especially after a revival when many were waiting to be baptized, we carried everyone to the banks of Zilpher Creek. The congregation would gather around the banks as the preacher would wade out about waist deep and the converts would wade out to meet him. He would catch their noses with a hanky, grab them behind the head, and dip thembackwards into the cloudy cold creek water. It was then that the woods rang with halleluiahs. I really miss and long for those long-ago days of my youth when we all were bold in showing and shouting our faith.
Shout Halleluiah Potato Salad
5 pounds of white potatoes cooked and drained.
4 boiled eggs
1 ¼ cups mayonnaise
1 cup sweet pickle relish
½ cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped celery
Mash cooked potatoes until creamy and add chopped boiled eggs, add mayonnaise, pickle relish, onion and celery. Mix well and sprinkle with paprika. Sometimes I have to add a little Pet milk to the potatoes as I mash them.
