HOMECOMING
Steven Rice
This Sunday night I am returning to my roots.

In a former life I was United Methodist. I like to tell Marshall that I was United Methodist before I became a Christian. I'm kidding, of course, and Marshall puts up with me or at least he pretends.

Eight years ago next month I was sent by the United Methodist Bishop of South Carolina to a tiny church in northwest South Carolina to serve as their pastor. This was the town of my father's family. It was actually the church of my father's family; in fact, my grandmother and aunt were still active members (I didn't tell the higher-ups about this connection).

The town of Calhoun Falls is about one sixth the size of Waynesboro; perhaps just over a thousand souls live there. The rumor was Calhoun Falls received her name after John C. Calhoun fell off his horse nearby, ergo, Calhoun Falls.

The United Methodist Church in Calhoun Falls looks like thousands of other churches built near mill villages in the South around the same time: tall steeple in the front and red brick all around.

I've been asked by her current pastor to return this Sunday night and reminisce, of sorts. Sadly, like so many Southern towns, the anchor of the community, the mill, has closed.

Now a town that was struggling to survive is waiting for the inevitable. Because we need to know where we've been to know where we are headed, my job is to share the impact a small United Methodist Church in a small mill village town can actually have.

I have learned that every church has a Betty. Betty told me each week how to run the Church. She told me she was there before me and she would be there after me. She was right. She would rub me and I would rub her, mostly the wrong way. But churches cannot survive without their Betty. She was the most active and most supportive member I had.

I learned what prayer looked like with Mr. and Mrs. Mahon. They didn't teach me how to pray, but this couple, well into their 90s would rise each morning ever so slowly and put on their best clothes and would sit together in the sunroom holding hands all day. They could hardly hear and could see even less, but the intimacy and union they shared spoke volumes to the intimacy and union prayer brings with God. I learned that even if you only have three children in the church, they matter.

All I had were Kaitlyn, Kirby and Heath, and on many days I only had Kaitlyn. But we still had children's church and we still had Bible School. It's not her fault she is the only one. She still matters.

I learned that the best salary a pastor can receive is a bag full of fresh corn and a case of Diet Pepsi - because that is what Billy Frank and JoAnn loved more than anything, and they shared their wealth with me.

I learned that small churches matter. I learned that people, of all sorts and conditions, matter. And even though they may never have a budget over thirty thousand dollars or attendance over forty and funerals may outnumber weddings 10 to 1, they still make a difference.

They made a difference with me. They made a difference to a lot of people.

As long as we carry those lessons and those memories wherever we go, that tiny United Methodist Church in a small mill village town in northwest South Carolina will never die.

No, she and the faith of her people will never die.