til we meet again...

Places like this still exist, y'all.
But are a dying breed, they are.

One room old country churches on dirt roads named after the church itself.

Where every year on the first Sunday in May we pick flowers from our yards to grace the lonely graves in the cemetery of our family members, old neighbors, strangers, civil war soldiers and slaves.

It's Salem's Homecoming.

This is my dad's church. Our family's church. And just up the dirt road from our house. On regular Sundays there are anywhere from 3 to 10 folks there, or 7 to 14 if they let our dogs come in. And on the first Sunday in May, attendance multiplies as folks come "home" to celebrate.

I haven't been to "First Sunday at Salem" in about five years but it was so sad to see that attendance on this day has dwindled to nearly nothing and will probably no longer exist in just a few years. In part to natural church trends and in part to UMC conference neglect, unfortunately.

I have such vibrant memories of this day being bigger than Easter, going to Salem with a church filled with people we know but that only go to that church once a year. Wearing our Sunday best, being enthralled every year with the headstones that were nothing more than a simple rock with no name and waiting the entire service just to end it by singing that old hymn "Til We Meet Again".

My dad has devoted his much of his time, love and energy to this church and he serves as the acolyte, usher, janitor, coffee maker, welcome-er, sometimes prayer-er, and on "First Sunday" this year, he was even in the choir.

After the service everyone goes to the long cement tables that have been there for over a hundred years and has "dinner on the grounds". Tablecloths are spread out along with the food each family has prepared and we help ourselves to each other's feasts.

My momma's known for her fried chicken and deviled eggs.

My Aunt Becky never misses a year with her 7-layer salad & cherry cream cheese pie.

We eat and talk and go back for seconds and dream of the afternoon nap to come. I am thankful for this tradition but am incredibly saddened and aware of how sacred these events are and the reality of how rare they may surely become.

But my Dad. He's a hero to this church. He'll do whatever he can to save it. He's the reason I'll always treasure it. His parents are buried there, as will he be one day, too. Through this place he's taught us the value of faith and devotion to a place and a space. And understanding that preservation, history and part of the story of who we are and where we come from lies between those walls, in the cemetery across the dirt road and through hundreds of conversations and meals shared over dinner on the grounds.

And our lives have been enriched through every one of the 140 "First Sunday's" of Salem United Methodist Church on the dirt road just up from our house.

. . . . .
*i had to include this picture. my poor dad had to have a medical procedure done the next day (Monday) so he could only have clear liquids. He was so tortured by seeing all the good food he had to leave :( ...when we got home we found him in his rocking chair doing work and drinking his broth...and it was his birthday to boot, poor guy!