There was a wedding just ending at my old church in Tutwiler. Rev. Willie Williams and folks were lining the steps, the front doors flung open and the bride dressed in white with a veil was happily married, starting her new life. It must have been late 2012 or so. I don’t know for sure.
I drove slowly down the street to take in the beauty of this moment in time. The last wedding I remember at this church was Aide Steel’s when I was probably still in grade school. I crashed it, because we were forever family friends, my mother was out of town and I needed to represent, plus I loved wedding cake.
My family helped build this red brick building with all the stained-glass windows, red carpet and arched wood carved to look like the hull of a ship — Noah’s Ark, perhaps. Our family pew was second from the front north side adjacent to the stained-glass window my grandparents contributed. Other families had their names on brass plaques under the windows or outside the building donating the land.
We were Methodist, we had creeds and responsive readings and hymns and sometimes Jesus was there, too. He was there when my mama folded her hands to pray and I looked at those hands and remembered that it must be important to pray. What my mama said was more important than what others said, and always had been. A hundred preachers couldn’t sway me more than my mama’s praying, believing hands.
One winter’s day about 1960, our car wouldn't start. Mama called her brother who lived across the highway for a ride to church, but it was denied. I wore my dove gray wool coat with the red satin lining and the black velvet collar and mittens, and Mama and I set out on the highway to walk the two miles to town. My uncle and aunt passed us up, so we arrived a little late. Like I said, Jesus wasn’t always present in this building.
Fast forward to 2012. The church membership was down to about four members — my sister Dorothy being one — and Jerry Wages was the minister, dividing his time between Tutwiler and Webb-Sumner. Dorothy got it in her head that the church should be kept open, not be used for anything other than a Methodist church. There used to be Sunday singing where we would visit other churches and lift our voices. The Rollins United Methodist Church in Webb, over behind West Tallahatchie High School, invited us all to squeeze in, pray and sing, Rev. Willie Williams gave us a warm welcome. Angels came down and the plan was made right then.
Based on one man’s good reputation in fixing cars and being a consistent honest voice for the betterment of the community, the foundation was set that Tutwiler Methodist would be handed over to the Rollins United Methodist Church. I hear there were bylaws that had to be checked and fast talkers that had to be outtalked, but my sister was always a force to be reckoned with. The church money was handed over to various charities and such while the ladies went about making sure all the plumbing was working and appliances in top condition, not wanting to hand over anything faulty to anyone else.
Someone took it upon themself to empty out all the silverware in the kitchen drawers. Why anyone would need 100 pieces of silverware when they were on the road to a nursing home is beyond me, but that was another time Jesus was on a coffee break.
So, 10 years down the road, I’ve attended a few meetings, helped serve up a few Thanksgiving dinners and such. And in my heart, I know when the doors open, Jesus is there — arms open wide just like the folks inside, because they make it a church, not a building.
