Most readers are likely familiar with the miraculous story of the Red Sea Crossing at the end of the fourteenth chapter of the Book of Exodus, where the Lord commanded Moses to stretch his rod out over the parted sea and bring the waters swarming and crashing down upon the pursuing army of the Egyptian pharaoh.  

     One of the best-known and -loved stories of all time, it has been read and told and even sung about for millennia.   The 1989 United Methodist Hymnal, on page 134, contains a traditional African American spiritual that speaks to the comfort of faith in times of trouble or sorrow.  It’s called, “O, Mary, Don’t You Weep,” and it’s about grief-stricken Mary of Bethany weeping over the loss of her brother, Lazarus.  “Don’t weep, for faith is triumphant in all things,” is the basic message of the song.

       O, Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn.

       O, Mary don’t you weep, don’t you mourn

       Pharaoh’s army got drownded.

       O, Mary, don’t you weep.”

It’s beautiful whether one hears it sung in the rhythmic strains of an old spiritual, or accompanied by a mighty pipe organ – “Pharaoh’s army got drownded. O, Mary, don’t you weep.”  It means, “It’s all right – God is in control and always has been.” 

      But we use it in Southern speech, too, as your compiler was reminded a few weeks ago when his contribution to his family’s Sunday dinner was a crockpot-full of pinto beans slow-cooked with a ham hock for hours and hours, and so flavorful it would make one slap his or her grandma away from the table.  Pintos, in the opinion of your compiler, are the king of all legumes, suitable for nearly any occasion, and certainly for a festive Sunday dinner to whom several family members were invited.

     Your compiler had bought a two-pound bag of dried pintos because the one-pound bag looked rather skimpy, especially for the crowd he and his wife were feeding after church that Sunday.   They cooked up beautifully, and a couple of helpings were consumed by everyone there, each of whom commented on how good they were.  Your compiler felt sure the pot would be about empty after seeing so many go back for seconds.

     When the dinner was over, the guests gone, and cleanup time was at hand, your compiler’s bride of 36½ years took charge of cleaning the pot in which the beans had reached perfection.  She scooped and scooped and scooped left-over beans into a storage container, and as she did so, employed an old saying her late mother, a native upstate South Carolinian, had used:  “Lord, hon, you made enough pinto beans to feed Pharaoh’s army!” 

     Your compiler knew at that moment he had material for another Talking Southern column. “Enough food to feed pharaoh’s army!”  What a wonderful way to express a plenitude.  And while your compiler supposes nearly anyone anywhere could say it, he really cannot imagine its being said by anyone who was not born and bred in the South. 
     Most stories have one moral, but this one has two:  The first is that Pharoah’s army did get “drownded,” so there is always – always – always – hope!  The second is that a one-pound bag of dried beans will almost always – always – always be gracious plenty!