We sat in the front row of the Wednesday night Bible lesson because that’s where we sat on Sunday after worship service. And the Wednesday before. And the Sunday before that—which was the first time we’d been in this classroom. Wednesday nights, the church serves dinner and then everyone disperses. Some to choir practice, some to teach the kids and some to hear a Bible lesson from the pastor. And then there are those that just go home, because they only come for the meal.
We’re not there for the food, but for the opportunity to get to know people in this new church. And it’s not just the church or the town that’s new, but the state, too. My husband and I moved more than halfway across the country to settle in this small, mid-Tennessee town. Everyone asks why. “What brought you to Lewisburg?” My husband says it’s a long story. I just say it was God. And they nod like they get it.
Anyway, we’re sitting in the front row of the Bible class and the pastor starts with prayer requests. He always has a list of them, and there are so many names I’ve never heard, that my head spins. Even if I could remember the names (or write them down quickly enough) I don’t have time to write down the requests.
Someone brings up Billy. He’s had more trouble than ten men. “He’s a great ol’ boy,” someone says. “Would give you the shirt off his back.” A few people agree. There is discussion to this effect for a couple minutes. Then an older woman, sitting in the back of the room, says, “Well, you ask his mother-in-law and she’d have something different to say.” That quieted everyone down for about two seconds before they got back to discussing Billy’s many godly character traits. “I’m just sayin’,” the older woman cuts in again. “Y’all have a different story.” She’s not saying these things with malice or even like she cares one way or the other. Just matter of fact.
Another church member wants prayers for his wife. His mother-in-law is in a care facility and it’s a course in tough love to keep her there. “Well,” someone comments. “No one wants to be in a care facility.” With this crowd, it’s a sure bet the possibility has gone through each of their minds.
“My neighbor was in a care facility and loved it.” A different woman commented.
“Was she in her right mind?” Another asked.
“Perfectly.”
Pastor shakes his head and grimaces. “I used to visit her every Sunday and she didn’t have a clue who I was.”
So much for her being in her right mind.
I tell you this not to say that our new church is full of gossips—just the opposite. Everything is out in the open, not whispered behind each other’s backs. Living in a small Southern town such as ours is refreshing. The people are real. There is no artifice. Everyone knows everyone and we’re not looked at as strangers, but welcomed as family. And when they ask how we ended up in their small town, they completely understand when I say it’s God.
Comments 4
Wow, what a concept … no facade. How refreshing to be authentic and be around people that feel the same. Small town and small church where people cannot get lost in the crowd and relationship takes precedence. Where do I sign up?
Author
You have a place here anytime, my friend!
It sounds like a good place to be. At least they try to get both sides and it is out in the open. I am glad you found a church home.
Author
Me, too! For us, it’s the foundation for everything else. It wouldn’t feel like home without it.