Jamie Parsell
In the early morning hours, I used to hear the school bus inch up the hill. Now the soft growl of an engine has been replaced with the clanging sound of metal hitting icy asphalt. Before I even check the news, I know by the sound it is going to be a snow day. I miss the noise of the school bus. The metal on asphalt sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard in the early morning. It is a rather rude alarm clock. With no children, even I am looking at the sky, wondering if I will hear the school bus before spring break. My dad is watching the weather too. You see, he has buses and children to pick up on Sunday mornings for a different type of education.
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More than 30 years ago, my dad and other members of our church embarked on a different type of outreach in the area — a bus ministry. With vans and buses, the goal was to pick up children for church on Sunday morning. Children would attend Sunday school, junior church and then ride the bus back home. The idea took to the streets, following a pattern of traditional bus rides during the week to school. Each bus has a regular driver or a bus captain, if you follow the church lingo. And instead of trying to catch up on last night’s homework, children play games or sing songs. Buses and sometimes vans travel into Bluefield and Princeton, picking up children at their homes across the area. Throughout the years, a bus on Sunday has probably confused dozens of area residents, causing their Sunday to look like a Monday.
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All my life, I have been around a bus. Parked in the driveway, a bus would rest until Sunday morning, when dad would start his early route. At times, I went along for the ride. Sometimes I played the role of a miniature mechanic, holding out wrenches and screwdrivers. I have seen hundreds of children come through the doors. Former riders are pastors, teachers and parents, who send their children to church. Today, more than 100 children ride the bus on any given Sunday morning. But the preparation begins the day before. On Saturday morning, my dad visits his riders. He wants to get an idea of how many will be riding the next morning. Other bus captains do the same. Like teachers have parent conferences and letters home, bus captains have Saturday morning visits. In the last 10 years, the routine has changed since the late ’70s and early ’80s. Children now get breakfast before Sunday school. From cereal to oatmeal and bananas, the ministry does more than teach children about church. It gives them a healthy start to the day — just like the cafeteria at their local school. But the snow has put a damper on Sunday morning activities.
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Saturday evening, as the sun starts to fade and daylight disappears, my dad watches the window. He is looking for snow. Lately, it is all he sees on the ground. An hour goes by, the weather report looks grim. The phone starts ringing. It is the other bus captains, wanting to know if they will cancel the buses in the morning. Sometimes a regular rider will call to check on the weather situation. Snow and ice always win the winter battle. The buses sit in the church parking lot, cold and covered with snow. The church is quiet. Adults and their hushed whispers and conversations among the icy crunch of snow don’t echo like those of excited children. It is a different atmosphere on snow days. Quiet.
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Last weekend — after weeks of idle buses — vans replaced the buses on the Sunday morning roads. While the weather was playing fair, the previous storm had left mounds of snow and ice. Instead of sending a bus, my dad opted for vans. Saturday night, sitting at a local restaurant, he flipped open his cell phone and began punching in numbers from memory. I studied the menu, waiting for him to finish rounding up riders for the next morning. He closed the phone. “See there, I got eight riders in five minutes,” he said. Fifteen came the next day — full of giggles, hugs and laughs — in the middle of a winter that seems determined to keep children at home.
Jamie Parsell is the Lifestyle editor of the Daily Telegraph. Contact her at jparsell@bdtonline.com
