My grandmother was a churchgoer. She was a faithful member of Mt. Bethel Methodist Church. When we stayed with her, we went to church, too. My granddad only went on special occasions, but he did attend the daily devotion every morning in his living room right after breakfast. My grandmother read the devotion out of the Upper Room – the scripture, the story that went along with it, and the prayer. To my knowledge, she never missed a day – and neither did my granddad – nor did he complain about it.
The little church was organized in 1833 and served the farming community known as Ola. In those early years, the main crop was cotton. When my grandparents moved south in the early 1950’s, they soon became an asset to the community and to the church. They were good neighbors and always willing to lend a helping hand. It didn’t take long for the church family to find out that my grandmother had some mad baking skills. When the church had fundraisers for various ministries, a pan of her cinnamon rolls was auctioned off at a hefty price.
A church isn’t a building, it’s the people that come together to worship, fellowship and care for one another’s needs. Within the church was Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson. When I was born, Mr. Wilkinson made a highchair for me. It has survived all these years and three generations have used it. Leroy and his family were part of the congregation as well. You may have read about him in a previous story. Another person in the congregation was a lady who was a dwarf. She was as short as me, maybe even shorter, and I was just a kid. Her short arms hung unnaturally by her side and her disproportioned body caused her to waddle when she walked. She was always so kind. I think she liked me because we were both short. These country people were a community of people who came together to support one another in good times and bad.
Some Sundays after church, we had lunch on the grounds. There were some good cooks in that little country church. However, there were some things I didn’t care for such as okra, turnip greens, collards and southern cornbread. There were also plenty of salads. My grandmother would take carrot salad, pineapple salad or some other kind of odd salad. I bypassed those but the ladies of the church sure liked them.
Someone always made a “chocolate cake” that was not a chocolate cake. Daddy laughed about that. When he got a slice of chocolate cake, more often than not, it was white cake with chocolate icing. A chocolate cake should be just that, chocolate.
Whether my granddad entered the door of the church or not, he lived an exemplary life of Christianity. He walked his faith. He was genuinely kind and complimentary. No matter what he was doing, he would set that aside to help a neighbor or a stranger. He didn’t show love by empty pious words but rather by his actions. If we walked such a path, our world would be a much greater place.
