Sweet Hour of Prayer

Scott and I used to play a game on long car trips. I would hum a few bars of a hymn and try to stump him. No matter how far into the recesses of my childhood church hymnal I would reach, he would always be able to sing it. Most of the time he knew all the words. I don’t think I ever won that game.

Old hymns play a big part of my faith heritage.

I recently bought a 3 CD set of instrumental hymns. I stuck it in my computer at work today and went about my business. It was on pretty low, just barely audible, when suddenly I was transported back to Woodhill Baptist Church.

It was a church my dad started when I was about 9. We met in the backside of a strip shopping center in Lexington, KY. It was a dingy, cold place. The only two windows in the storefront were at the entrance, but our “sanctuary” for worship faced the back, and was obscured by a wall that had been constructed to make Sunday School “rooms.” We sat in metal folding chairs. There was no carpet that I can remember. To me, it felt like the fartherest thing from church possible.

The only musical instrument we had was a small organ - you know the kind. . .old women over 80 have one in their parlors. Joan somebody was our organist. If she wasn’t there, we were on our own.

Joan was never there on Wednesday night for Prayer Meeting. But Jeff Hensley was. He could only play one song - and then, only very haltingly. His entire repoitore consisted of “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Lucky for us, it fit for prayer meeting. Good thing, because we sang it every Wednesday night for several years. He would haltingly plunk it out and we would patiently try and sing.

“Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!”

When I heard the song quietly coming out of my computer speakers today the only prayer I could say was “thank you.” For all the baggage the Baptist church encumbered me with I still have a deep appreciation for the roots of my faith. And I still have a deep appreciation for the smallest gifts of faith, shared with hope.