An Uncertain Sound Nell Boeschenstein (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 178] You know, the Bible says there, “For [if] a trumpet give a uncertain sound, how would you prepare yourself for battle?” There’s a battle a’coming. And it says make a joyful noise unto the Lord, and that’s all I’m trying to do, make a joyful noise to the King of all kings. —Frank Newsome The light was as bright as winter against the white walls. The pew cushions didn’t match. An industrial blue carpet covered the floors, and a promotional calendar from the Haysi Funeral Home on the wall by the door to the sanctuary announced the month: March. Frank and Geraldine headed [End Page 179] for the far wall, where the large window behind the pulpit let in the pallid sun. On either side of the casement, the frozen faces of men and women gazed out from framed photographs. Some were smiling and posing, some were merely acknowledging the fact that they were being photographed. “Let’s see,” Frank said. “That one, two of them right there is alive yet, and these here deacons, they alive.” He turned and, indicating to the other side of the window, said, “And most of them over here is dead.” He moved closer to those photographs, and Geraldine followed. “That’s a picture of Jonah Sprints,” said Geraldine, indicating a photograph of a smiling man in red suspenders. “And this my mom and daddy, that one on the right top there,” Frank said pointing to a photo of a couple posed for their portrait against a gray studio background. He paused. “They’re both deceased and gone.” “And then the second one over the middle one’s my mom and dad,” said Geraldine, pointing to a photograph of a couple sitting on a couch, their arms around each other. She moved on to the next picture. “This one’s dead,” she said. “My brother Clancy there,” said Frank, pointing to another man in another photograph. “He lived right near me. He died with cancer.” “This one’s dead,” said Geraldine, picking up steam as she proceeded not to name the dead so much as to identify their state. “This one’s dead. This one’s dead. Both of these is dead.” “Yeah,” said Frank. These photographs are the most significant decorative elements in the sanctuary of the Little David Baptist Church, where Frank Newsome preaches and Geraldine keeps the books in order. They’ve been married fifty-four years. My friend Kelley Libby and I, both of us writers and reporters, were visiting from our homes in Charlottesville, a five-and-a-half-hour drive northwest, and a world away, from Haysi. We were working on a project about Frank and, knowing that the Little David would be central to any such endeavor, had asked for a private tour. Frank continued on to the pulpit, where he took out his copy of the Little David songbook and began flipping through. The selections are identified by opening lines—“Beset with snares on every hand,” “To heaven I lift my waiting eyes,” “How sweet and awful is the place.” After thumbing the pages for a few minutes, Frank settled on a hymn. He looked to Geraldine as if for permission. “Sing a verse of a song?” he asked her, meaning, could he sing a verse? Frank had been in and out of the hospital all winter: Geraldine was worried about the rattle in his lungs. “If you want to, honey,” she said, unwilling to fight him on it. He puffed up his chest. His eyes fixed like magnets on some point in the middle distance. The pews sat in quiet attention as he began to sing—in a voice that seemed to have access all at once to the back of his throat, his gut, some time long past, some place long gone, some point in his cortex where all his [End Page 180] conviction was held. The sound was loud and remote and strange. And now our meeting is overBrother’n we must partAnd if I never more see youI...
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Jan 25, 2023
Stephen Kyei 
