Beulah Land...Sweet Beulah Land

It was an ordinary day.  Reading a story that was posted in the publication known as "The Fishwrapper". The story is known as "Beulah Land" and was written by Cathryn Keller.  Hope you enjoy it as much as I did when I first read it.  

The blazing, midday sun relentlessly beats on my head as I struggle to pull the stubborn weeds that dot the cracked sidewalk.  I am part of a team of volunteers on this "Make a Difference Day," and our assignment is the one-block area surrounding the First Baptist Chruch and its neighbors - rickety houses that lean randomly on crumbling cinder blocks.  From the open door of the nearby old, red brick church, a tremulous voice can be heard accompanying the tinny piano.  Hearing the familiar words, I am transported from the inner-city street, with its  cracked asphalt, litter-strewn empty lots, and broken windows, to a little home on a tree-lined corner in southeast Texas.  

Beulah Land, I'm longing for you, / And someday on thee I'll stand, / Where my home shall be eternal./  Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land. 

My grandma's soprano voice, high and clear warbles through my dream-filled sleep to waken me.  It is a bright, Sunday morning, and I am ten years old.  Golden sun streams in through the faded, chintz curtains.  The bed I wake in is sturdy and brown and covered in soft, worn sheets and quilts.  I am in my very favorite place on earth with some of my very favorite people.  Languidly, I stretch and snuggle down for a few more minutes in my warm cocoon.  It is early morning, and my nose tells me that Grandma is frying sausage.  Soon she will use the grease to make the milk gravy that will cover her homemade buttermilk biscuits.  Of the many gravy variations in her repertoire, this is my favorite.  In addition to buscuits and gravy, there will be fig preserves, sliced tomatoes from Grandpa's garden and scrambled eggs.  Sunday mornings at my grandparents' home in southeast Texas always begin this way.  My grandma, in her faded housecoat and slippers, will be standing by the stove with a fork in her hand, singing her favorite hymns.  Coffee waits, hot and strong, in the old Mr. Coffee on the pink, Formica countertop, to be poured in the brown stoneware mugs.  My grandpa, with his glasses perched on his narrow nose, can be found reading the local newspaper, the Silsbee Bee, at the table that had belonged to his parents.  As a boy, he'd sat at this same worn, rough-hewn table with his six brothers doing homework by lamplight.  When I can sleep no longer, and my mouth is watering from the smell of biscuits and sausage, I leave the warm room with its familiar furnishings and head to the kitchen.  Grandpa throws his strong arm around my waist as I enter the cozy, cluttered room.  "Good morning, Hon!  Did you have sweet dreams?"  Grandma calls from the stove.  Contentment and warmth wash over me as I bask in their complete attention and love.  Pulling out one of the mismatched wooden chairs from its place under the thumb-tacked bank calendar, I sit down and settle in for breakfast.  There's the crocheted table runner made by my great grandma, the brown tea pitcher with its faded, blue stripes, the worn, black Bible, and Grandpa's ever-present Kodak - all cluttering the hundred-year-old table's scarred surface. Grandma bustles around us, setting the table with mismatched plates and cutlery, old, jelly-jar glasses filled with milk, butter in its glass dish, and platters of steaming food.  After she sits beside me, grabbing my hand to fold into her large, warm one, Grandpa pushes his glasses up on his nose and begins the prayer, earnestly thanking God for the food and asking His blessings on the day ahead.  After the amen, I slather butter and Grandma's homemade fig preserves on one biscuit and douse another in the creamy, peppery gravy.  Always a big eater, I relish these meals at my granparents' table.  Time slows as we enjoy each bite, and help ourselves to seconds (and thirds).  "Did I ever tell you the story about your daddy and the cow?" Grandpa asks.  The answer is yes, a thousand times, but I answer "No Sir," so I can hear it again. My grandpa is a born storyteller, and as one of seven boys, he had to learn early to tell a good one to be heard in the din of the tiny home where he grew up.  The story of my daddy and the cow is told once again, with a few embellishments thrown in for good measure.  I laugh at all the right places, and watch Grandpa's face light up with the telling.  All too soon, the black-and-white clock above the white, enamel sink tells us that it is high time to finish breakfast, rinse the dishes, and get ready for church.  A last gulp of milk, a bite of biscuit, and my plate is whisked away by Grandma.  She smooths down my straight, dark-brown hair with her soft hand as she turns toward the sink, already beginning to quietly sing the next verse. 

I'm kind of homesick for a country/Where I've never been before;/No sad good byes will there be spoken/For time won't matter anymore.

 "You about through with that section?  I'm about to call this one."  The team leader's words jolt me out of my reverie.  As I straighten and turn, I am suddenly aware of the tears filling my eyes.  I am back on the scorching city sidewalk, a pile of wilting weeds beside me, and the beginning of a sunburn stinging my face.  The woman in front of me is eyeing me with kindness in her eyes.  "I was just remembering my grandparents," I say, smiling with the words.  She gives me a pat and turns to round up the rest of the team.  Hugging my memory to myself, like a sweet secret whispered in my ear, I hurry to catch up.  I can almost hear Grandma say, "Well, time - it does march on!"  

Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.