I'm whisking eggs for french toast, the teen and tween are slowly stirring, and Sunday services are around the corner. It's Sunday morning in the Knitternall house.
A Southern Sunday Morning
There is a sweet softness to a Southern Sunday morn.
A softness which fills the senses, and brings a peace to hearts forlorn.
And then there is the smell of home fried chicken…
with radio sermons which drift aimlessly in the air.
Even the dogs and cats up and down the street
nap lazily this day without an iota of care.
It is a day when one can see young children all bright and clean....
Standing on the street corner, dressed in their Sunday best,
waiting patiently and uncomplainingly as children can be,
for the church bus to take them to the Lords house to be blessed.
Yes, it’s a summer's Sunday morning in the Bible belt, deep down south.
It is a place where the “blue laws” still exist on the books
And all the businesses around town are silent
As the hustle of the bygone week is for this one day forsook.
Oh yes, there is a special softness to a Southern Sunday morn,
It is a softness that fills the suffering soul and renews the spirits torn.
It is a taste of life as sweet as the peach pie mama cooked last night…
Oh sweet Southern Sunday Morn.
J. Allen Wilson © SEVEN 2006