Piney Grove Freewill Baptish Church

The dew is still fresh on the roses carefully placed on the altar by Aunt Pearl as the sun comes up very early on a Sunday morning. The church sparkles from the furniture polish rubbed on the wood floors and the pews the day before. It’s the third Sunday of the month, when Preacher Ferrell once again preaches at Piney Grove Freewill Baptist.
Barnes and Stancils, Hydes and Cockrells stand to sing the opening hymn that Aunt Alma has chosen to play on the upright piano, and as all sing of a garden where they can pray, my grandmother, ‘Aunt’ Amy, collects a twenty-five cent per family donation for the preacher’s pay, recording it all carefully with a stub of a pencil in a dog-eared notebook. Preacher Ferrell is a grower of tobacco during the week and a harvester of souls on Sunday; the meager amount of money and an abundant Sunday dinner his pay for delivering the Sunday preaching. My Great Grandfather Stancil leads the group in an opening prayer and Sunday school cards of Bible characters are used as fans as the congregation settles down for the usual hell fire and brimstone sermon.
Little Betty Van can hardly sit still for such a long time. Smelling the fried chicken and the biscuits has her tummy rumbling; the sound of creek and the buzzing of the yellow jackets down where the huge black Bullis grapes and thick-skinned Scuppernong grapes are ripening in the hot sun distracts her. Sister is sitting in her prim way, never squirmy like Betty, puffed up all proud like ole man Price’s red rooster because she made the banana pudding. Their mother, Amy, looks over at each briefly, inspecting hair and nails. They each have on their best Sunday dress.
Betty Van gets to pick the last song and she chooses, to no one’s surprise, Amazing Grace, singing loudly about a ‘wretch like-a me’. She and Rene leave the church to gather down by the creek bed until the table is spread. ‘Don’t get your Sunday dresses dirty, girls” their mother warns.
Lorene desperately wants the chicken breast, but she quietly watches as the adults at the big table pass the platter, the familiar platter of yellow jonquils with a pink border, lined with brown paper to catch the grease. No matter how many times she counts it out or how hard she prays, she knows the back, neck and wings will most likely be the choices when the huge plate finally gets to the kid’s table. Preacher Ferrell always gets the biggest pieces; Lorene guesses its because he is the best blesser of the food. She can’t help it, she knows it is a sin, but Lord knows he doesn’t need it, his big belly hanging over his black pants.
After the feast of potato salad, fresh cut cucumbers in vinegar and sugar, mashed potatoes, biscuits with molasses, and tea so sweet it hurts your teeth, Lorene removes the sweating dinner plate off of her big yellow bowl of banana pudding with a flourish. Everyone digs in. Lorene’s father catches her eye with a slight grin. “What do you call this, Lorene?” “It’s banana pudding and I made it myself”, Lorene says. “Well, there’s just one thing I want to know—where’s the bananas?” Lorene is horrified. She has forgotten the bananas.
Everyone agrees that banana-less pudding is still some of the best they’ve ever put in their mouth as the women cover up the leftovers. The men wander over to the tobacco barn for a smoke, and the kids begin to collect rocks to arm their fort.
I’ve heard this story so many times in my life that I feel as if I was at that church on those Sundays long ago myself. But I couldn’t have been because the old Piney Grove Freewill Baptist Church is now gone, weeds choke the grape vines and the Honeysuckle beside the creek where my mother played. People were poorer in the 1930’s and ‘40’s but pure hearts, strong hands, and proud families worshiped God in a joyful if humble spirit there in Piney Grove Freewill Church.
And I still prefer my banana pudding without bananas!