Southern Sunlight -18

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Sunday morning came with the sound of Mama humming softly in the kitchen, her gentle voice drifting through the house like a lullaby. The faint clinking of dishes followed, along with the rich, savory smell of bacon frying in the cast-iron skillet. The sweet aroma of biscuits baking in the oven mingled in the air, wrapping our home in warmth. Sunlight peeked through the tall pines outside my window, casting golden streaks across my quilt. I didn't need to ask what day it was. I knew.

Sunday meant church.

I stretched beneath the covers, savoring the last moments of comfort before climbing out of bed. My bare feet touched the cool wooden floor as I padded over to my dresser. Mama had already laid out my best dress—the blue one with the crisp white collar. It wasn't my favorite, but Mama said it was proper for church, and what Mama said was what mattered. I slipped it on carefully, trying not to wrinkle the skirt, and brushed my hair until it was smooth. Mama curled the ends just a little with a warm iron, her fingers gentle as she guided each strand into place. The faint scent of lavender lingered from the soap she used when washing my hair the night before.

Papa was already dressed when I came into the kitchen, wearing his good button-up shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers, with his old leather belt—the one he only brought out on Sundays. He sat at the table with his coffee, reading his worn Bible. His rough hands rested on the pages as he traced the words with his finger, lips moving slightly though no sound came out.

We ate breakfast together, the meal blessed with a short prayer, Papa's voice steady and strong as he asked the Lord to watch over our family. Bacon, biscuits with honey, and scrambled eggs made for a hearty start to the day. After we finished, Mama wiped my mouth with a damp cloth, inspecting my dress once more before giving a satisfied nod.

The drive to church was short, but the ride was filled with conversation. Papa talked about his carpentry work for Mr. Blake the past week, fixing a porch that had nearly caved in. Mama reminded me to be polite and to listen well during the service. The windows were rolled down, letting the warm Georgia breeze sweep in, carrying the scent of pine and earth.

When we arrived, the gravel parking lot was already filling up. Cars and pickup trucks lined the side of the white wooden church, their paint glinting in the sun. Folks gathered near the entrance, shaking hands and exchanging smiles. Laughter mixed with greetings as neighbors caught up on the week's happenings. I saw Mrs. Anderson, Mama's friend, standing beside her husband, chatting with Mrs. Olsen, who held her baby on her hip. Mr. Olsen, tall and serious-looking, was talking to Papa about work.

Everybody knew everybody here. Church wasn't just a place to worship; it was like a family gathering. We cared for each other. We prayed for each other. We shared what we had, and we leaned on one another when times were hard.

Inside, the church was small but welcoming. Rows of wooden pews lined the sanctuary, polished to a soft shine. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting patches of gentle colors on the walls and floor. The air held a faint scent of hymnals and pine cleaner. I slid onto the bench beside Mama and Papa, the familiar creak beneath me making me feel at home.

The service began with singing. "Amazing Grace" was first, and the sound of voices rising together filled the space. It was my favorite hymn, and judging by the way folks sang with closed eyes and gentle sways, I wasn't alone. Mama sang softly beside me, her voice blending with mine, while Papa's deeper voice carried strong and sure. The music made me feel wrapped up in something bigger than myself—something safe and good.

After a few more hymns, Pastor Wilson stepped up to the pulpit. He was an older man with silver hair and kind eyes that seemed to see right into your heart. He spoke with warmth, like a grandfather talking to his grandchildren. "Good morning, church," he said, his smile spreading across the congregation.

"Good morning," we all answered in unison.

He began with a prayer, giving thanks for the day and asking for God's guidance. Then he opened his Bible and spoke about honesty. His voice was gentle but firm, carrying weight with each word.

"The truth is a powerful thing," he said. "It can build a person up, or it can tear them down. Lies, no matter how small, can lead us down a dark path."

He read from Proverbs 12:22: 'The Lord detests lying lips, but He delights in people who are trustworthy.'

Mama gave me a small nod, her eyes warm, like she knew I was listening closely. Papa, his hand resting on his knee, nodded slightly as well. He was a man of few words, but when he listened, you could tell he took it all to heart.

Pastor Wilson continued, reading from Ephesians 4:28 about working with your own hands and helping others. He told a story about a boy who stole candy from a store. What seemed small at first led to bigger lies, hurting both himself and those around him. It made me think of Billy from school, the boy who tried to cheat on a spelling test. I wondered if he ever got caught.

"God calls us to be honest," Pastor Wilson said. "Not just when it's easy, but especially when it's hard. The truth sets us free."

The room was quiet, the only sounds being the rustling of paper and the occasional creak of a pew. Those words settled in my heart. I wanted to be the kind of person who made Mama and Papa proud—someone honest and hardworking.

When the sermon ended, we bowed our heads for a final prayer.

"Lord, help us walk in truth. Keep our hearts pure and our hands honest. Let us always seek You in all that we do. Amen."

The closing hymn was "Just As I Am." It was soft and slow, making me feel closer to everyone around me. When the last note faded, folks stood up, chatting as they made their way outside. Mama found Mrs. Anderson again, and Papa shook hands with Mr. Olsen. I stood nearby, feeling good.

I felt reminded of something important—something Papa had always taught me.

Honesty. Hard work. Doin' right.

That was what mattered.

After church, Mama and Papa decided we'd go to McDonald's for lunch. That was a treat—one we didn't get too often. Usually, Sundays meant a big home-cooked meal with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and cornbread. But today, Mama said she was too tired to cook after the long week. Papa agreed, and I wasn't about to argue. My stomach had been grumbling halfway through the sermon, and the thought of hot fries and chicken nuggets made my mouth water.

The drive wasn't long, just a few minutes down the road from the church. We passed familiar sights—the small gas station where Papa sometimes filled up his truck, the little produce stand with peaches and boiled peanuts, and old Mr. Harris's bait shop with the hand-painted sign leaning slightly to one side. When we pulled into the parking lot, the golden arches stood tall against the blue sky, like a beacon calling hungry folks inside. The smell of fries and burgers drifted through the air the second we stepped out of the truck, making my stomach rumble louder.

Inside, the place was buzzing with life. Families from church, travelers passing through on their way to Florida, and kids like me, all eager for their meals. The tile floor was a little sticky, and the hum of conversations mixed with the beeping sounds from the kitchen. The menu boards glowed bright above the counter, pictures of burgers, fries, and ice cream cones making it hard to pick just one thing.

While we stood in line, I glanced around and noticed someone familiar at a corner table.

Mr. Johnson.

He wasn't wearing his work clothes. Instead, he had on a simple button-up shirt and jeans. Sitting across from him was a lady I hadn't seen before. She had short brown hair and glasses, and she was laughing at something he said. They both looked happy, like they didn't have a care in the world.

I tugged on Mama's sleeve. "Look, it's Mr. Johnson."

She glanced over, then smiled. "Well, would you look at that. Your teacher has a life outside school after all."

I laughed a little. It was funny to see him like this—not standing at the front of the class with his serious face, not correcting how we spoke, just a regular person having lunch.

Mr. Johnson noticed me, too. He gave a small wave, and I waved back, feeling a little shy. When we got our food—a Happy Meal for me, with nuggets, fries, and a toy car—we found a booth near the window. The sun poured in, warming the table, and I could see cars rushing by on the highway.

As I bit into a nugget, Papa asked, "That your teacher?"

"Yes, sir. That's Mr. Johnson," I said, making sure not to talk with my mouth full. "He's teaching us multiplication. And he's helping us talk better—like not saying goin' and eatin'."

Papa chuckled. "Well, good. Ain't nothin' wrong with soundin' proper when you speak."

Mama nodded. "Makes you sound smart. And you are smart, Emily."

I smiled, feeling my chest puff up a little. We ate our food, chatting about little things—the sermon, the songs, how hot it was outside. I told them about how Mrs. Thompson's hat nearly blocked my view of Pastor Davis, and Mama laughed, saying Mrs. Thompson's hats were always a sight to see. Every now and then, I glanced over at Mr. Johnson and his wife. It felt kind of nice, seeing that teachers were just like us in a way.

When we were done, Mama said, "You can go say hi if you want."

I wiped my hands on a napkin, making sure there wasn't any ketchup left on my fingers. My heart beat a little faster as I walked over to their table.

"Hello, Mr. Johnson," I said, keeping my voice clear.

He looked up, his face kind as always. "Hello, Emily. Fancy seeing you here. This is my wife, Sarah."

"It's nice to meet you," I said, hoping I sounded polite like Mama taught me.

Mrs. Johnson smiled. "Nice to meet you too, sweetie. Your teacher here tells me you're quite the sharp one in class."

I felt my cheeks warm up. "I try my best."

Mr. Johnson gave a small laugh. "You're doing more than trying. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you," I said with a grin.

I hurried back to Mama and Papa, my heart feeling light and happy. It was a good Sunday—a full belly, friendly faces, and the sun still shining bright as we drove back home along the country roads. The tall pines lined both sides, their shadows stretching long over the grass. I leaned my head against the window, feeling the warmth of the sun and the gentle hum of Papa's truck beneath me.

Some days just felt right, like everything in the world was as it should be. This was one of those days.

When we got back home, Papa changed into his work clothes—a faded white T-shirt with a tear under one arm and a pair of well-worn jeans that had patches on both knees. He grabbed his old ball cap from the hook by the door, the same one he'd had for as long as I could remember. It was dusty, sweat-stained, and fraying along the brim, but he wore it like a badge of honor.

"Gotta get this yard mowed before it turns into a jungle," he said, stretching his back until it popped. "Ain't had rain like that in weeks, and now it's shootin' up faster than a hound after a rabbit."

Mama went inside to start some laundry, but I stayed out in the yard, the thick smell of damp grass still clinging to the air from last night's thunderstorm. The sun had climbed high, and the heat wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. My bare feet sank into the soft earth as I stepped off the porch. The dirt was warm, but every so often, I found a cool, squishy patch left over from the rain. Those were the best spots—the spots the frogs liked.

The second I heard the mower rumble to life, coughing and sputtering before settling into its steady roar, I took off across the yard. Barefoot, like always. The grass brushed against my ankles, some blades tall enough to tickle my knees. I darted through it with one mission: saving frogs.

I knew they were out there, hiding in the damp places near the edge of the yard, or down by the little ditch that ran toward the woods. I always worried the mower might catch one, and I couldn't let that happen. Not on my watch. So I ran, scanning the ground with eagle eyes, searching for any little green jumper.

"There's one!" I whispered to myself, heart racing with excitement.

I crouched down quick, careful not to startle him. He was no bigger than a walnut, his slick green skin glistening in the sun. Before he could spring away, I cupped my hands gently around him. He wriggled in my palms, cool and slippery, his tiny legs pushing against my fingers.

"You're safe now," I whispered.

I carried him over to the creek bed, my steps careful as I crossed the uneven ground. The creek was just a little trickle most of the time, but after the rain, it gurgled softly, winding its way past mossy rocks and clusters of reeds. I knelt by the water and opened my hands. The frog hesitated for a moment, then gave one quick hop into the mud. He disappeared into the shade of the grass, safe and sound.

Papa pushed the mower back and forth across the yard, the blades whirring and grass clippings flying into the air like confetti. The smell of freshly cut grass filled my nose, mixing with the warm breeze. Sweat dripped from Papa's brow, and his shirt was already sticking to his back. Every few minutes, I spotted another frog, or sometimes just a rustle in the grass that had me diving after what I thought might be one.

Some got away, hopping faster than I could grab. Others let me scoop them up with hardly a fuss, their little bodies still cool from hiding in the shade. Each one was a victory.

"Emily, what are you doin' out here—runnin' around like a wild thing?" Papa called over the roar of the mower. He paused, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, his face flushed from the sun.

"Saving frogs!" I hollered back, breathless but proud.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Well, you best be quick about it, or they're gonna end up in the stew pot."

I knew he was joking—mostly. But it made me work even faster.

By the time Papa finished the last strip of grass, I'd saved at least half a dozen frogs. Maybe more. My hands were caked with mud, and my knees were stained green from crawling through the grass. My hair stuck to my neck, and my cheeks were red from the sun. But I didn't care. I felt proud—like a real hero. The Frog Rescuer of Folkston.

Papa shut off the mower with a final chug and started cleaning the clumps of grass from the blades. The yard looked neat again, but I knew the frogs were out there, safe by the creek, thanks to me.

I plopped down in the shade of the porch, stretching my legs out in front of me. The cool boards felt good against my skin. Mama peeked out the screen door, a laundry basket on her hip.

"Y'all finished out here?" she asked.

"All done," Papa said, giving me a knowing smile. "And Emily here's been busy savin' the whole frog population."

Mama chuckled. "That so? Well, I reckon those frogs owe you their lives."

I grinned, feeling like I'd done something important—something good. And as I sat there, listening to the gentle buzz of cicadas in the trees and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

I was sitting on the porch, catching my breath after my frog-rescuing mission, when I heard the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, the dampness clinging to my skin under the Georgia sun. Looking up, I saw a familiar blue truck pulling in, kicking up a little cloud of dust as it slowed to a stop—Abby's daddy's truck. The paint was faded in places, and there was a dent in the front bumper from the time he hit a deer last fall. I remembered Abby telling me how her mama had been mad about it for weeks.

Before the truck even came to a full stop, the passenger door flew open, and Abby was hopping out, her worn sneakers kicking up little pebbles as they hit the driveway. Her ponytail swung back and forth like a metronome, and her grin was wide and bright as ever.

"Hey, Emily!" she called, waving enthusiastically.

"Abby!" I jumped up from the porch steps and ran across the yard to meet her. The grass was warm under my bare feet, and I felt the crunch of dry blades mixed with patches of soft dirt. "What're you doin' here?"

She shrugged, shifting her weight from foot to foot, excitement bubbling under her skin. "Mama said I could come play. Daddy's gotta fix somethin' at home, and she's takin' my brothers to the store. Figured I'd get outta the house."

I knew exactly what she meant. Her little brothers, Cody and Travis, were a handful. They were always running around, getting into things, and Abby was usually stuck wrangling them like a mother hen. Having a break from them was probably the best part of her day.

I was thrilled to see her, but I also knew what this meant. Abby wasn't much for frogs, and I had a feeling my afternoon plans were about to change.

"You're not gonna make me touch any of those nasty frogs, right?" she asked, wrinkling her nose as her eyes drifted toward the creek in the distance. Her freckled face scrunched up like she'd already gotten slimed.

I laughed, brushing my messy hair out of my eyes. "Nah. I already saved a bunch. They're safe now."

She let out a dramatic breath, like she'd just escaped danger. "Good. 'Cause you know I don't like 'em. Slimy little things."

From across the yard, Papa pushed the mower back toward the shed. His shirt was damp with sweat, and he had that tired-but-satisfied look he always got after working outside. He raised a hand in greeting. "Hey there, Abby!"

"Hi, Mr. Saunders!" she called back, standing on her toes to wave.

Papa wiped his brow with his forearm. "You girls stay outta trouble," he said with a grin before disappearing into the shed, the creak of the door echoing through the quiet afternoon.

Abby and I stood still for a moment, feeling the warm breeze brush against our faces. It smelled like freshly cut grass and wildflowers, with just a hint of the muddy creek lingering in the distance. I could hear a cicada buzzing somewhere in the trees, its song rising and falling like a lazy summer lullaby.

"So... what do you wanna do?" I asked, nudging her shoulder.

She tilted her head, tapping her chin like she was deep in thought, though I knew she already had something in mind. "Wanna climb that tree out back? The big one?"

My face lit up. That tree—an old oak with thick branches and a trunk so wide it took both of us holding hands to stretch around it—was our favorite. We called it "The Fort" because we liked to pretend it was our secret hideout, a place where no boys, chores, or pesky adults could bother us.

"Race you!" I shouted before she could answer.

Without waiting, I took off running. My feet pounded against the ground, kicking up dust as I dashed toward the tree line. Abby let out a playful shriek and took off after me, her laughter mixing with mine in the air. Our legs pumped fast, but my lead was slim. She was quick, always had been.

The oak tree came into view, its massive branches reaching out like arms welcoming us back. I skidded to a halt at the base, my chest heaving, as Abby arrived just a second later, nearly bumping into me.

"I almost had you!" she said between breaths, hands on her knees.

I grinned, leaning against the rough bark. "Almost."

We both looked up. The lower branches were easy to reach, but it was the higher ones that gave the best view of the fields beyond our houses. You could see the whole world from up there, or at least it felt that way.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Ready."

We started climbing. The bark was rough under our fingers, and the occasional sticky sap clung to our hands, but we didn't care. This was our place—our escape. Higher and higher we went until we found our favorite branch, wide and sturdy enough for both of us to sit side by side. We settled in, our legs dangling, toes brushing against leaves below.

The view was as perfect as ever. Fields stretched out, dotted with patches of wildflowers and swaying grass. I could see Papa's shed, the blue truck in the driveway, and the distant shimmer of the creek where I'd spent my afternoon rescuing frogs.

"It's pretty up here," Abby said softly.

"Yeah."

For a while, we just sat there, talking about school, what we wanted to do next weekend, and how maybe, we could convince our parents to let us camp out by the creek one night.
The sun started to sink lower in the sky, painting everything with that golden glow that made early fall evenings feel like magic. I glanced at Abby, and she smiled back. We didn't need words. We both knew this was the best kind of day—the kind you wanted to hold onto forever.
Just two best friends, climbing trees and chasing sunlight, with the whole world stretching out before us.