The Tent Revival

                                                                     GW Yeatman

An army-green canvass loomed royally over umpteen rows of Samsonite, folding chairs.  Outward-leaning tent poles, giant ropes and steel rods secured her majesty in precarious reign.  Tons of fresh sawmill chips smothered an acre of Johnsongrass.  Enthroned upon a hastily erected stage sat a knotty, clear-lacquered pulpit. 

An evening breeze was yet to cool the Southern sun, and the air hung thick as London fog.  For every soul attending, a dozen mosquito-disciples turned out.  Bedecked in cotton print dresses, fan-waving ladies sat beside sweaty, tight-necked men.  The fabric temple bustled with attentive saints inhaling the sweet resin of loblolly pine.  Even the county fair could not top this grand venue.

Brother Pete Steelman had come to town for tent revival, and church folk from all over Oktibbeha County had marked this fateful night on their 1954 Security State Bank calendars.  I watched the entire spectacle through amazed, if not fully accurate, eyes of a nine-year-old boy.  The crowd rose to their feet and drawled a hymnbook load of  four-stanza classics.  Then a rotund man in full-suited preacher armor mounted the stage and began yelling some things from the Bible. 

It was time for my friend and me to try to redeem our long-suffering night.  Stevie and I perched atop a crude, splintery bench at the end of a long empty isle and chattered away the hours.  Before we knew it Amazing Grace was in full chorus and a burly man marched down the isle toward us. 

Oh my, we were in trouble.  What would he do?  We were sure to be reported to our parents to receive the full wrath of the Lord.  He stopped in front of us.  He did not shout like the preacher.  And he wasn't even mad!  We were receiving a scare commodity called mercy and even more of it was about to change our lives forever. 

“You boys need to go down and accept Jesus into your hearts,” the tender Goliath instructed. 

"Yes sir,” we agreed.  

We had believed his report.  Taking us by the hand he led us to a prayer tent just left of the stage.  Inside another gentle soul told us how we could save our own.

“Jesus Christ died for your sins,” an altar worker carefully explained, “If you accept him into your hearts, you can receive eternal life.” 

Though our young ears had shut out the din of the service, another sense now took full control.  The good news was so logical it must true, and only a fool could refuse so gentle a reprieve. And even grown church sinners were getting “saved” for all eternity.  Some of them I knew well.  One of them walked over to give me her good news.   I could see she was filled with joy.  This moment was to sear a lasting memory deeply within my heart.

Bending over, the lady made certain I could hear, “I accepted Jesus as my Savior son.”

"Me too Mama," I said, " I did too, so did I."