When Papa Asked God for More Mules

As the wife of a foreign service officer, I've traveled all around the world, living mostly in developing countries.

When I looked at lush fields in Zaire or green rice paddies in Laos, I thought of the farm I grew up on in Natchitoches, La., with its neat rows of crops, the tall brown sugarcane shimmying in the breeze, the cotton blooming white like popcorn.

I found that no matter how far I traveled, I took a bit of my childhood home with me, especially the bedrock faith of my father.

Jerusha was what my father always called me, using my middle name. "Jerusha," he'd say, "what did you learn at school today?" or "Jerusha, please get me a glass of water."

Jerusha was the mother of a Judaean king in the Bible. Papa wanted us to have strong names so that we would stand firm against the adversities of life.

Papa couldn't read very well. He'd dropped out of school in third grade to toil beside his father, cutting trees and hauling logs to the sawmill. When he and my mother met he was working in a lumber mill. Then he bought the small 40-acre farm where they reared their children.

With 14 of us, Papa and Mama's work was never done. He labored in the fields from dawn till dusk, and she was on her feet all day in the kitchen or vegetable garden.

What Papa couldn't read about his faith, he more than made up for by living it. He was a deacon in his church, and was often called upon as the song leader. He chanted each line in his mellifluous baritone and the congregation repeated it.

At home he led us in weekly prayer and singing. We got down on bended knee in front of our chairs, sinking our elbows into the caned seats, our heads bowed, hands clasped. Then Papa spoke to God as though the Lord were right there in our front room with us: "Listen to your children here on bended knee, calling on your grace and mercy... "

Papa's first exhortation to us in the morning was a prayer. He and my brothers were up before the dawn, feeding the animals in the barn. Then he came inside and called to us, "Rise, shine, give God the glory." We splashed water on our faces and feasted on breakfasts of eggs, bacon, grits and Mama's hot biscuits.

As hard as things were in the 1930s, we knew we were fortunate. Ours was one of the few black-owned farms in the parish. Folks came to us to buy fresh vegetables or drink a glass of water cooled by ice chipped from a 100-pound block.

Papa sold the main crops: corn, soybeans and sugar. With the money he went to Mr. Nelkins's general store and bought shoes and fabric to be sewn into clothes for us.

There were so many of us the neighbors used to tease my parents. When one lady spotted us gathered around the kitchen table, she exclaimed, "Look at all those chilluns. They can eat the heads off the angels and drink the Jordan dry!"