Old country church
Iwas making my way through the mountains of Virgin ia. I crested one hill and saw a white steeple poking through the trees in the hollow below. Hollow, in this instance, being pronounced holler, like when you hit your toe on the edge of the bed in the middle of the night. I used that steeple as my compass for a few miles, excited to see what sort of church I was about to drive up on, because there are few things in life I love more than an old country church. I finally turned the corner in which the church stood and pulled to the side of the winding moun-tain road. The white paint on the wood siding was peeling and the door nearest the front was well worn from years of farmers and locals pushing the door open with their boots. The weeds were overgrown and a tree had begun to overtake the front window obscuring any view into the building.
In the middle of the church there was what could only be described as a silo upon which the steeple was perched. On each of its five sides were simple, inornate stained glass panels. There were no biblical scenes or artistic representations, just various colors through which the sun could shine. Near the door was a sign that read, North Fork Baptist Church, EST 1776. In the midst of political upheaval that would lead to revolution, there was a body of believers that decided nothing would distract them from establishing this house of worship in the mountains; as the colonies made their moves to leave George’s kingdom, these believers readied themselves for the Kingdom of God. I turned off my podcast and put on some Flatt and Scruggs gospel and imagined a time when that church was filled and some of those same old hymns echoed across the valley; I pretended I’d just had church there that cloudy morning and maybe I’d heard a sermon on Psalm 23 and thanked the Shepherd for leading me beside quiet waters every time the noise of the world gets overwhelming. Lord, my cup overflows.
