Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

It was the summer of my 12th year of life. I remember that clearly because I was in that awkward stage of too many freckles, too many pounds and long, wavy hair.

All my life, I had heard talk of the first mountain church that had called Daddy as its pastor. Mill Creek Baptist. It was a small, white boarded church that was the center of family legend. Deep in the mountains, it was about 40 miles from home. Forty miles of wildly winding roads.

That little community was divided sharply between the righteous and the renegades. Those who were good were very good and those who were bad were always hiding from the law. There was no two ways about it: they either loved the Lord with all their hearts or they ran from Him with all their might. In the shadow of the 1950s’ Appalachians, life in Mill Creek was either white or black. There was no gray.

The congregation met two Sundays a month. When the young, spirit-called preacher showed up, it revitalized the church to a point that the pews filled to overflowing. Men gave up their seats to the women, then stood in the church yard, the windows raised, listening to salvation being preached.

The stories were many and since it was years before I was born, I knew nothing except what I overheard.

“Big ears,” Mama used to say about me because I loved to listen in to the stories that the adults told. It was fascinating and filled my imagination.

They always chuckled when they told stories of a precocious boy named Charlie Grant. Once, he had interrupted the sermon to ask, “Can I get a sup of water?”

There was a bucket of fresh river water on a table at the altar and it had a dipper – a ladle – in it.

Charlie’s mama was horrified but Daddy, unfazed, stopped preaching and said, “You sure can. Come right on up.”

Charlie had endeared himself to Daddy on the Sunday morning that Daddy asked, “Can any of yu’uns tell me what I preached on the last time I was here?”

Not a word was said as Daddy’s eyes searched the congregation.

Finally, Charlie raised his hand.

“Preacher, I do.”

Trying to hide his amusement, he asked, “Son, what was it?”

“You preached on the rooster crowing three times.”

Daddy smiled at the boy and nodded. “That’s right, Charlie.

And the rest of yu’uns oughta’ be ashamed that a 6-year-old remembers what you don’t.”

There was one God-loving family who suffered two tragedies while Daddy was the pastor. One young son drowned in the river where, once, Daddy had baptized 27 people saved in the summer revival. “A watery grave,” is what the mountain people call it because a full emersion baptism buries all sins. It definitely was a watery grave for that child.

Another son was playing hide and seek with friends in the woods. Thinking he’d found the perfect hiding spot, he climbed inside an abandoned refrigerator. The door snapped shut, leaving him to smother. Daddy, no stranger to mountain sorrow, stood to preach both funerals. He’d carry the mark of that family’s sadness in his green eyes for the rest of his days.

The summer that I was 12, Mama and Daddy decided to revisit that church for its annual homecoming: all-day service with dinner on the ground in between preaching, singing and foot washing.

I was excited to see this church that had burrowed itself so deeply into my parents’ hearts. Daddy pulled the car to a stop, facing the cemetery. From the back seat, I watched as he studied the weathered headstones. His eyes watered.

Finally, he spoke softly.

“I buried more men in that graveyard that died with their shoes on than died with them off.”

“Big Ears” was eager to hear more. Next week, I’ll tell you what Daddy told.

This is the first part of a two-part series. The second part will run next week. Ronda Rich is a best-selling author.