Since moving to Minnesota in July of 2008, I made my first trip home to Arkansas this year. While there I revisited my home church. My life was centered around church growing up, and this one holds special meaning because it has been my family’s church for over a hundred years.

I passed by First Baptist Barton Church on the highway, you know, and I thought it looked exactly the same. The one thing that is different is the outhouses. You see, there used to be two--one for the men, one for the women.  And really, they’ve been gone for years, but I can still picture them there.

First Baptist Barton Church is a little one story white wooden clapboard church, with a short steeple and a wooden cross on top. There are three windows down each side. Now there are five concrete steps with no banister. The old steps, the wooden ones, had a banister. There were seven steps, but they creaked when you stepped on them because the nails had rusted and the boards were loose and warped from the weather. The new steps were probably built by Mr. Elton, a deacon at the church, also the neighborhood handyman.  He is very frugal and has a mind of his own-- that’s probably why there is no banister on the new steps--he was trying to save a dollar.

On this Sunday, upon returning to my church, I was saddened to see there was no basket for the “Building Fund” during the collection. Every Sunday when we did collection, we passed around a special basket, and people dropped in coins or dollar bills. This money was for the “Building Fund.”  A few times a year, we also had guest groups and choirs come from nearby churches, and the collections from these events went into the “Building Fund.”  This money was used to make additions on to the church. The congregation added a kitchen, two bathrooms, and running water. It took years to raise that money-- about four or five years. I wonder now if they will start another fund for repairs.

While sitting on the wooden pew, I thought of my family.  One of the saddest memories at the church was my sister’s funeral. She was the last of my immediate family to die. I had buried my mother, brother, and my father, and all of their funerals were at that church. I could see them there all lined up in their caskets at the front of the church and hearing mournful songs being sung. I looked around in the church and saw relatives, childhood friends, and the older church members. I felt the loneliest I’ve ever felt in my life. I felt as if I had lost my best friend. I saw on the faces of the people there the compassion and the sadness in their eyes.

Thinking about funerals reminded me of the first one I’d ever attended.  It was at that church. Actually at that funeral I saw the first dead body I’d ever seen. He was my friend’s uncle, and he was the town drunk. They think he was poisoned because he was mean and disliked by many people. They brought him home to his momma, and we all thought he was “dead drunk,” but he was dead for real. The next Sunday after his funeral, there wasn’t a sermon, just Sunday school, and all of us kids were standing around outside waiting; we wouldn’t go in. We were scared to death. We thought his ghost might be inside. But in the end nothing happened, and all the pictures stayed on the walls.

After the service, while standing outside talking with the few church members that were still there, I looked to the left and noticed they had planted new trees. I asked my brother-in-law what happened to the two big older trees; and he said one was struck by lightning and the other was cut down because the roots were getting into the septic lines. The “Box Dinners” during the summers would be held under those trees.

Pastors’ anniversaries and church anniversaries were special occasions when I was growing up. There would be big celebrations to honor those occasions. There would be announcements and invitations were given to other churches months in advance. On the bottom it read, “Dinner will be served.” The church ladies would make “Box Dinners.”  They would prepare all kinds of food and pack it in cardboard boxes. There would be cornbread dressing, sweet potato pie, chocolate pie, lemon meringue pie, fried chicken, barbeque ribs, and collard greens—all the traditional southern foods. There would also be hand-cranked homemade ice cream. It was a very festive occasion. I still remember the drip through paper plates, although we didn’t always have paper plates. Sometimes the church ladies would save aluminum pans and we used those instead.

After the service we went up to my brother-in-law’s house; he just lives a quarter mile down the highway from the church.  I felt saddened when I left.  It was strange going “home” and seeing the church members I knew, and so many familiar faces missing. I didn’t see my momma sitting below the choir stand on the right side, and I didn’t see my daddy sitting on the left side asleep. I also missed sitting on the pew playing hangman with my sister on the back of the Sunday school book. These memories will linger until I return again next year.          

*From the gospel song "Lord, I'm Coming Home" by William J. Kirkpatrick.