Presenting Mr. William Bowman.

Some faces say little. Others volumes. Mr. Bowman’s grizzled face lectures us on life and its never-ending difficulties. I look into his eyes and see seven Ph.Ds.

Mr. Bowman blows the horn at Indian Fields Methodist Campground near St. George where folks live in wooden “tents” for a week and worship in the tabernacle. Standing amid the ninety-nine tents surrounding the tabernacle, Mr. Bowman sounds his notes as the lengthy trumpet rests across a comrade’s shoulder. People gathered beneath blue October skies socialize until the pewter and brass horn summons them to service.

And the children? When Bowman’s notes sound quiet time at eleven in the evening they know their day is done.

Mr. Bowman has long blown the holy trumpet but his tenure pales in comparison to his Uncle Shell who last blew the horn at the tender age of 103. Till that day, Uncle Shell had sounded the trumpet for seventy-five years.

You should hear it. You should see it. Bowman applies his weathered face to the brass mouthpiece and his notes lift people from their chair. Brother, sound that mighty trumpet like no other, but you know and I know your eyes say it all.