In Loving Memory of Rev. Lethel Culbert
A faithful man of God, a steady hand, and a living sermon who taught patience, prayer, and peace—one quiet moment at a time.
The sound of running water used to mean trouble in my granddaddy’s house.
If you stood at that sink with the faucet blasting full speed like you were trying to drown the dishes, you’d hear him shout before you could even blink:
“Girl! Turn that water off until you ready to rinse! You tryin’ to baptize them plates or wash ‘em?”
That was Rev. Lethel Culbert—my Pawpaw—a man who could preach a sermon in one sentence and correct your life in the next. He didn’t need a microphone; his voice carried through the house like thunder itself. I’d stand there, suds up to my elbows, pretending not to hear him, but I always did. The kitchen window would fog, the air would smell like lemon Joy soap, and the floor creaked with every step he took coming to inspect what I was doing.
He’d shuffle in, slippers whispering across the linoleum, and tilt his head at the sink like it had personally offended him. Then he’d point, that slow preacher’s point that made you straighten up before he even said a word.
“Slow and steady,” he’d say, shaking his head. “That’s how you get things clean—and keep ‘em clean. Fill up one side for washing, one for rinsing. Ain’t no sense in letting water run like we got a river contract.”
I used to think he just liked to fuss. But years later, when the water bill hit my grown-up mailbox, that voice echoed right back in my head. Slow and steady. Turns out, he wasn’t just talking about dishes.
Pawpaw believed everything had rhythm—the sink, the storms, even your spirit.
Let a thunderstorm roll in and the whole house changed gears.
One flash of lightning and his preacher instincts kicked in.
“Cut them TVs off! Put that phone down! Don’t talk, don’t move, sit your hind down somewhere when God is doing His work!”
You’d see kids scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Every electrical item in the house went silent: the TV, the radio, even the iron if someone was mid-press. We’d all sit perfectly still while the rain tapped on the tin roof and thunder rolled deep like a church drum.
He’d sit by the window, one hand resting on his Bible, eyes fixed on the clouds. “The Lord is talking,” he’d say, soft now. “You can’t hear Him with all that noise.”
And if the thunder cracked close enough to shake the whole house, he’d lift his chin toward the sky and say, “Alright now, Lord, I hear you!”
It always made me giggle, the way he talked to heaven like they were old friends having a private joke. But he meant it. It was his way of showing respect to something greater.
Now, even in my grown-up years, when the sky growls deep and it feels like God’s about to snatch the shingles off my roof, I still holler, “Okay, okay God, I hear you!”
It’s funny—and holy at the same time.
When Pawpaw wasn’t preaching or praying, he was in the yard on his riding mower—his second pulpit.
That mower was his pride and joy, and mowing grass was no casual chore. It was a calling.
He had rules for that too. “You cut in the same direction,” he said. “Straight lines. No zigzagging like you drunk or in a hurry. The yard gotta look like somebody live here with sense.”
And Lord, that mower went slow. If a turtle ever challenged him to a race, the turtle would’ve won and taken a nap before Pawpaw reached the halfway mark.
He always kept it on the lowest speed—maybe two miles an hour on a good day. One afternoon he let me drive, and I thought I was about to show him how efficient I could be. I cranked that speed up to 3, just enough to feel wind on my face. Grass flying, blades humming—I was feeling proud.
Then from across the yard came that unmistakable voice:
“Slow and steady!”
I jumped like lightning hit the fence. He didn’t even look up, just kept walking, waving his hand like a warning flag. “You in a hurry to do it wrong? Turn it down. Let the mower do the work.”
I turned it down, cheeks burning. He strolled over, examined my crooked patch of lawn, and said, “See that? That’s the proof right there. Grass don’t lie. You rushed it.”
He looked at me with that calm patience that made you feel worse than yelling ever could. “Do it fast, you gotta do it twice. Do it slow and steady, you only gotta do it once.”
That was Pawpaw in a nutshell—firm, patient, and right every single time.
Sundays in that house were their own kind of revival. The scent of fried chicken floated through the air, and gospel music filled every room. Willie Banks and the Messengers were on rotation like clockwork—the soundtrack of my childhood.
He didn’t just like Willie Banks; he believed in him. That deep, gravelly voice, those harmonies—they weren’t just songs; they were sermons set to melody. Pawpaw would hum along, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, sometimes lifting one hand in the air like he was right back in church.
And if by chance you caught him watching TV, it wasn’t going to be no music videos or game shows. Oh no. You were getting a western—the old kind, with grainy picture and heroes who rode off into sunsets. He said you could tell a man’s worth by how he rode his horse and how he treated strangers.
Bigmom would be right there beside him, her head leaning toward his shoulder, sometimes fussing about dinner but always smiling under her breath. They were a team—quiet, solid, and steady.
Then there were the days of revival. Lord have mercy.
That’s when Pawpaw’s preacher side took over completely. You couldn’t blink wrong without him turning it into a teachable moment.
The “mourning bench” sat right there near the front of the church. Hard wood, no cushion, and an even harder task: pray until something shifted. Kids today would’ve called it cruel. Back then, we called it deliverance.
If you hadn’t “got saved” yet, they’d sit you there every evening during revival week until you did. No phones, no TV, no conversation—just you, your thoughts, and the weight of your own soul.
I remember thinking it was torture. I’d kneel, eyes shut tight, praying for forgiveness and wondering if heaven was really listening or just watching me sweat. Every day, I promised myself I’d feel something new, but mostly I just felt tired and hungry.
But that was the point—no distractions. Just you and God, face to face. I’d whisper prayers until my knees ached, trying to drown out every wandering thought. Some nights it felt like the devil himself was sitting next to me, whispering in my ear, trying to pull me away. But Pawpaw’s voice always came back.
“Keep praying, baby. The devil fights hardest when he knows he’s losing.”
That man had a way of turning pain into patience. And when you finally stood up from that bench—weak, teary-eyed, but light somehow—he’d look at you and nod like he’d known all along you’d get there.
That was his magic. He never rushed your journey, but he didn’t let you stop either.
Years later, after all those lessons, all those long summers and quiet storms, came the day we didn’t expect—the day he went into the hospital and never came home.
The silence in that house was unbearable. No gospel music humming. No mower puttering out back. No deep voice fussing about water or crooked lawn rows. Even the storms felt different—like the sky knew it had lost its favorite listener.
Bigmom sat in her chair, still and calm, her eyes fixed on the same window he used to watch. She said softly, “He gone home to see the One he always told us to listen for.”
And for once, I finally understood what “God doing His work” really meant.
These days, when rain starts to fall and thunder rolls in, I turn everything off. The TV, the phone, even the lights sometimes. I sit there, just like he used to, and let the quiet settle in.
I hear the faucet drip steady in the kitchen, the rhythm of life itself. I picture him mowing slow, singing along to Willie Banks, Bigmom laughing in the background. I can smell that fresh-cut grass and hear that low hum of the mower.
And then I whisper, without even thinking—
“Slow and steady, Pawpaw. I’m listening now.”
Because I finally get it.
He wasn’t just keeping order.
He was teaching balance.
Teaching faith.
Teaching stillness in a world that never stops moving.
And every time the thunder cracks, I close my eyes and smile, because somewhere, I just know he’s saying—
“Be still, baby. God’s doing His work.”
— Written in Memory of Rev. Lethel Culbert, with love by Leprinthinya Wilkins.
