NEW POST In the sweltering summers of my childhood, I spent many Sunday mornings with family tracking that clay into my grandparents’ small church. It was here where the elders – iron men and women who’d seen and survived a lynch-happy South, Jim Crow laws, and the hardscrabble lives of sharecroppers – brought their troubles to the altar and renewed the faith that sustained them. The Sunday ritual began with a time-honored tradition that is equally haunting and hopeful: a singing method called “lining a hymn.” - See more at: urbancusp/2014/09/24765/#sthash.bWFfRnnY.dpuf
Posted on: Wed, 24 Sep 2014 13:01:16 +0000
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