Coming Home

Sunlight streams through the windows and shines off the whitewashed walls of the tiny church as blue-haired women in their Sunday best shuffle their way into pews reserved by tradition and habit. This weekend is Homecoming here at the Green Hollow Methodist Chapel, and one of my gals has invited me to be a part of her family today. I’ve taken my seat in the back, right behind Ella Mae and her son. Slowly, the rows in front of me fill up with generations of people who have come through this place at various points in their lives; hugs and excited greetings are exchanged as folks catch each other up on the past year.

As the conversation dies down, the pastor walks up to the front of the church and grins broadly at his congregation before inviting everyone to stand and sing. A hundred voices meld together and rise to an arched ceiling that embraces the joyful noise like an old friend. I mouth the words but don’t allow any sound to come out; aside from not being familiar with these old hymns, I feel like my voice would stick out amongst that gathering above us, a harsh New York accent trampling on beautifully soft Southern lilts. I’m content to listen, and my voice is content to rest (for once).

After a few verses, we sit and the pastor begins to take a role call. He announces the last name of each family in the parish, and all those present from that group stand. Some families have upwards of twenty members present, coming from as far away as California. Others – like Ella Mae’s – have two, but they represent their lineage and stand just as tall. The pastor introduces the oldest member of the congregation; at ninety-four, she stands proudly behind me as he calls out her name, beaming in a bright pink and purple floral print dress and surveying her church family, one which she has seen grow and change more than anybody else in this building has. Our attention is then directed to the youngest member who, at four months old, sleeps blissfully through the first of many homecomings, completely unaware that the eyes that smile on him now will watch him closely as he develops a little personality and contributes in his own way to Green Hollow's rich history.

After some preaching and more beautiful singing, we get up and file slowly through a door at the front of the church into a gathering area. Miles and miles of Southern cooking stretch out in front of me. In a traditional show of friendly competition, each lady has made her own specialty dish with the flair and panache of a five-star chef. Oh, sure, they’ll bat their eyes and dispense cordialities, but don’t be fooled: this is a blood sport (my compliments to whoever whipped up the potato salad, by the by). These people know how to cook. And they sure know how to eat.

We eventually roll away from the banquet tables and back into the church, where it’s open mic time. I’m blown away by the natural talent within this tiny community; each young singer that steps up to the front of the congregation is better than the last. While keeping an ear open, I make my way to the vestibule, where there are large scrapbooks set out featuring thousands of newspaper clippings from years past about the church’s members. I skim through the generations, watching one girl grow from a birth announcement to an engagement announcement to a wedding announcement. I look around and see her sitting close to her young husband, and I smile when I notice that she’s just starting to show. A pretty blonde woman comes and stands next to me, serving as a guide of sorts as I continue to explore this church through its periodical records. She tells me that she’s thirty-nine and a teacher at the county high school, but she has a youthful light and warmth about her that makes me feel like a peer. We fall into conversation easily, and I learn that the expectant mother inside is her younger sister. Hearing my accent – or lack thereof – she asks me where I’m from and which church I attend. I answer New York and give the name of my parish, and I notice the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow (Catholics aren’t traditionally all that popular in these parts). I quickly explain, “My horns and pitchfork are in the car.”

I’d had high hopes of being the recipient of a few smiles at this church, perhaps of being granted the chance to be graced by a conversation or two with its charming members. I’m happy to report to you that, due to that comment, I am known as the “Catholic New Yorker with Sass” to the Green Hollow Methodists, and have since received numerous dinner invitations. How’s that for ecumenism?