Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Any church is just a building. It’s the people and, for me, the memories that make it special.

I grew up in a tiny country church where each person knew each other and knew their kin.

When my Mama, a brave 18-year-old, came down from the mountains, she was greeted by her maternal aunts and uncles who had ventured 45 miles of winding, treacherous roads in hopes of making a better life.

Two things to know: It was 1937, one year after the chosen town, Gainesville, had been flattened by a 1936 tornado, killing hundreds – and it’s unusually hard for Appalachian people to leave the security of their mountains. To this day, it is an ongoing struggle through the North Georgia foothills, Carolinas, Tennessee, Eastern Kentucky, and West Virginia.

Most will shun what they don’t know. This makes me particularly proud of my Mama and her close relatives.

Mama’s grandfather had been the most prominent man in Suches, Georgia. He owned hundreds of acres of land, including all that surrounds where the Appalachian Trail begins, the general store; and he was the postmaster who ran the post office from his store.

I have written often of the poverty in which Mama had known little comfort. Her Mama married a poor man, then lived a hard life for forever. MawMaw never regretted it and never wanted to go back to a more comfortable life.

Mama couldn’t wait to escape the mountains and see the big city (it was a small town but it had rail cars and factories). On a block known as “College Avenue,” her family soon bought the entire avenue. One Aunt and Uncle ran a successful diner while another aunt and uncle owned an enormous Victorian house which became a boarding house where Mama lived in exchange for cooking and cleaning — when she wasn’t working at the hosiery mill for 10 cents an hour plus commission (which she made in abundance thanks to her quick hands and strong desire to earn money). Her first cousin, Emory, owned a garage on College Avenue.

Every Sunday morning, Mama and the Burnett family would dress in their very best – including hats, gloves, and matching purses and hats – and walk together to attend Central Baptist Church.

The church had been built in the late 1800s but was completely destroyed by another tornado in 1903. They rebuilt. Then, in 1929, they built a larger church, this time fashioning a building of brick with white columns and a stunning sanctuary with gorgeous stained glass windows and a balcony. It stands today.

“One day, I’d like to go to Central,” I said to Tink. “Much of my family history echoes through that church.”

That day arrived recently. Barely through the door, we were engulfed by people who hugged our necks and shook our hands. They knew who we were and remembered my family.

As the choir sang, “When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder,” I looked up at the chandeliers and admired the stained glass. Then, I focused on the altar, thinking of my great uncle and cousin who had laid there in caskets. The newspaper said that the crowds overflowed the church for both services, spilling out into the yard. My poor Aunt Alfie was overburdened.

Her handsome, admired son, Emory, now dead, was testing a motorcycle he had just finished repairing when he mistakenly geared it in reverse. As Mama and his parents watched, he shot backwards and into the path of a delivery truck. His death came quickly.

Their grief never disappeared.

“I never got over it,” said Mama, 60 years later. Eleven months passed. Uncle Henry, Emory’s father, was buying Two Way cold tablets at a nearby store. A drunk tried to involve Uncle Henry in an argument. Mountain stubborn, Henry refused. The drunk pulled out a gun and shot him dead.

Poor, sweet Aunt Alfie had lost her only child and husband within less than a year. I stared at the altar, thinking on that.

The Lord’s word can be found in many churches. But family history resides in but a few. For me, one of those churches is Central Baptist.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the newly published book from Mercer University Press: “Sapelo Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Sign up for Ronda’s free weekly newsletter at www.rondarich. com.