For the past week, Yalobusha County’s former circuit clerk and lifelong resident Mary Sue Stevens has taken me on a tour into her past—which, in some ways, was also a tour into my own past. For many years, I have been fascinated by old, white country churches, and as soon as I settled in Water Valley, I began asking people where I could find one of those churches, nestled in the woods. Finally, Mary Sue Stevens heard my plea and volunteered to take me to the area where she grew up—somewhere between here and Coffeeville and the old Velma/Hopewell communities.

We have driven many miles this week and we have passed at least 15 old country churches. Along the way, Mary Sue has afforded me enough time to hop out of the car and photograph every church that we passed. It was a journey that fed my soul. There is something ultra spiritual about a place of worship that is planted in the woods. When I am surrounded by nature, I always feel close to God, but when a church has managed to survive in the elements of the wild. I am quite sure that God is truly in that place.

About fifty years ago, I attended school at Ole Miss, and during that time, I fell in love with the countryside around Oxford. I liked going to college at Ole Miss, but while I was there, I craved more than the life of a coed. My spirit needed to make frequent excursions away from the campus, and during one of those trips, I discovered a weathered white church nestled in woodland. It was resting several miles from the university. After I discovered that site, I went out there almost every day, and I simply sat and experienced undiluted peace. “The peace that passes all understanding.” I suppose I prayed–in a very basic way—but primarily, I just sat there listening, trying to hear God’s voice.

I remember the first day that I found my old, country altar. I was driving down a gravel road, and as I turned one corner, I spotted a building that stood like a lighthouse at the end of the path. I began driving toward the structure and the road crunched. My tires chewed and spat rocks from their sides. As I moved closer to the church building, the shade of the forest cooled the air around me.  I rolled down my car window, and the fresh, pungent smell of the pines pierced my nose. Soon, the dust from my car’s ascent settled, and a smoky haze floated downward, carrying bits of powdery earth that landed on my tongue.

I parked my car and began walking toward the building. Long, splintery boards were nailed to the rough bark of two massive oaks that stood about 15 feet apart. I had been a Southern Baptist long enough that I knew those boards to be the buffet where the church members helped themselves to generous helpings of delicious food. Standing there, I could smell hot, buttery biscuits, crispy-fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, ham so fresh that it almost oinked, and cinnamon-loaded apple pies in crispy crusts.

I walked closer to the little, wooden building, and from its white, peeling paint and the cracks in the mortar that lifted it off the ground, I knew that this old church had certainly been in its spot for many, many years. Something about that made me feel secure.

Two heavy doors were at the entry of the structure, and they were locked. Standing outside the empty church building, I could almost hear the out-of-tune piano inside, plunking enthusiastically, while a sparse congregation, mostly of older, weak voices, joined and sang, “When We All See Jesus, We’ll Sing and Shout the Victory.”

I have lived in many places since those days at that old, white church near Oxford, MS, and I have looked for it everywhere I went since that time. To be quite honest, I moved to Water Valley, hoping to find that place again. Many people in this town have been blessings in my life, but I can honestly say that Mary Sue Stevens is the friend who helped me find that little white church that had been planted in my heart.

Over the next few months, I’ll be painting, drawing, and writing about all the old churches that I am visiting in Mississippi. I want to write a story about each of those churches and hopefully, you will be able to read most of what I write in this paper. Ultimately, I hope to collect all of those stories, along with my art and photographs in a book, but I need your help. I would also like to share some of your memories about this area, too. If you have a story about an old church near here–about a dinner on the grounds or a river baptism, about a sacred harp singing, or about an old school, I’d love to hear what you remember or what you heard your grandparents say. I’ll certainly give credit to people who allow me to use their stories, and I’ll only tell what you want to be told. But I need to hear your memories, Perhaps we together can breathe new life into some of these old, withered buildings that are just waiting for us to come home.

First printed August 17, 2023
in the North Mississippi Herald