Last night was the eighth and final, night of the Revival at the little white church on the hill. I missed two nights but was happy I got to attend last night.
Pastor Matt sent us out with renewed faith and refreshed spirits. We often reach places in our faith where we sleepwalk and just go through the motions. The purpose of Revival is to wake us up, to learn, and to get a fire in our bellies. Mission accomplished. So many little churches are withering up because the elders are dying off and the young people aren’t attracted by the dryness that is so often the hallmark of the services.
I went to my home church last night. You all are going to think that’s all I do. It isn’t…but this was Revival week so every night but Friday night has been spent in church so that’s what you get with your morning coffee. My home church is wonderful. It meets in a warehouse. It started out just two short years ago with 127 people. Now we regularly serve over 1300 people in three services every weekend. 1259 Salvations. 226 Baptisms. 2556 VIP’s (new attendees who fill out a visitor card). They have a great Praise Team and the pastors are a husband and wife team who do a wonderful job. Because the Sunday services are standing room only, the pastor asked for volunteers to come to the Saturday night services to give the new people a chance to come in and find a seat. Isn’t that a wonderful “problem” to have? We are in the process of buying a huge warehouse so we can have a seating capacity of 1300 per service. I love it!
This has turned out to be a really intense and power-filled week for me. I have been attending an old-time Gospel, Spirit-filled Revival this week at the little white church on the hill and I’m telling you what…it’s been both exhilarating and exhausting. I don’t even feel like myself. I’m sure you’ve noticed my fired-up posts this week. I don’t usually go all preachy like that, but I’ve been just feeling so inspired all week and I’ve learned to listen. With that in mind, today’s post is toned down a bit but still faith-based, as all my essays are. I noticed my numbers dropped off a little after yesterday’s post. I know…not everyone wants to have religion with their coffee. I get that. There will be plenty of travel stories and farm stories and memories to share down the road. This is Revival week, and since I write about what I’m experiencing every day, this is what you get this week.
This is a clip from Night 3 of the Revival I have been attending. I thought I would share it with you in case you are interested. Pastor Matt preaches in much the same style as the circuit preacher who, quite literally, scared the pee out of me when I was seven years old, sitting in this very church. My 64-year-old eyes can see past the style and dogmatic differences now to see the same love behind the delivery. That circuit preacher of old sent me fleeing in the opposite direction of the church and I spent the better part of my adulthood feeling like something huge was missing in my life. It wasn’t until my mom died that I began to explore a relationship with God like I had never known. More specifically, I had always loved God. It was this Jesus guy that I was afraid of. I was led on a spiritual quest with so many supernatural twists and turns that I finally had no other alternative left but to believe. Interestingly, that was what my grandma told me when I asked her, after the scary preacher incident, “How do you KNOW Jesus walked on water?” At the time, her answer, “You just have to believe” made absolutely no sense to me. Eventually, it did. I almost died before I got there. Thank God, I did not.
Well, I went to Revival again last night. I do not believe I have ever in my life felt the energy in that little church that I have felt this week. I’m talking fire. Whew! You do come away with a spring in your step after a big dose of the toe-tappin’ spirit. I tried to imagine my Grandma and Pop-Pop, my mom, Aunt Idy, Uncle Red, Aunt Myrt…sitting in their seats, listening. They were all so…reserved. Let me tell you…these beautiful people were anything but reserved.
Yesterday was a mowing marathon. I no sooner finished till the rains came. I barely finished before it was time to head to church again. Revival. Who knew I’d enjoy it so much. I have to say, I truly have never experienced anything quite like this. Last night’s sermon was about the Holy Ghost. I never really understood the Holy Spirit till just the last few years. There’s a contingent of women attending this Revival who have a more Pentecostal background and I mean to tell ya, it got downright lively last night. I felt exhilarated when I came out of there.
Some of my earliest memories surround the little white church on the hill a couple miles from the farm. We only had a handful of people come every Sunday. We had a circuit preacher who came every six weeks or so. You dressed for church back then. And you dressed extra special on preaching Sunday. We got a stick of Beeman’s gum, or maybe Juicy Fruit, to keep our little mouths fresh…and busy. Grandma tied a shiny dime in the corner of a hanky and gave it to us for the collection plate. We were threatened within an inch of our lives to be good. You never, ever wanted to cross Grandma.
Farm life. For this mostly city girl, there’s been quite a lot of learning going on the last nine months. I’ve learned to recognize the call of several different birds by sound. I’ve learned to pick up the cat dishes at dusk to keep the strays and other nocturnal critters off the back porch at night. I’ve learned who to call for pest extermination. Who NOT to call for handyman services. I’ve learned how to turn off the gas to the house, reset the regulator, and relight everything. I’ve learned how to mix the gas and oil for a two-stroke engine and how to change the reels on a gas trimmer. I’ve learned about numerous bugs, snakes, and varmints and how to keep them at bay. I can identify quite a number of trees, plants, and flowers. I’m feeling pretty accomplished over here.
I was sitting out on the front porch yesterday…drinking coffee, solving the crossword, checking in with friends, listening to the Norah Jones channel on Pandora, watching the spring showers blow through in waves. It’s been a crazy week with trips to town for one thing and another every day since I got back from my last trip. Yeah, I know…it’s rough. But, I was really relishing a few hours of peace and quiet before a friend arrived in the afternoon for a visit. It felt good to just BE for a little bit. Those moments always turn something on in my heart…like fine-tuning the dial on a radio to get the station perfectly clear.
They were Lucy and Ethel. Lucy, the clown, was the preschool teacher…much beloved by students, parents, and staff. Ethel, the straight woman, was the para in her classroom. They were a great team for twenty years and remained friends in the years since. Mutt and Jeff…peas and carrots…peanut butter and jelly.
When Ethel’s beloved husband died, it was Lucy who rallied the troops and gathered a whole box of joyful gifts and sent it to her. There were fuzzy pens and silly hats, coloring books and crayons…all manner of trinkets that spelled out “I love you”…wrapped in brightly colored tissue paper. Ethel’s mood was visibly lifted by these precious gifts as well as the explosion of color all round her on the kitchen floor. This was the nature of their love for each other.
