Thankful for that old country church

I am convinced that I was the only kid around who never saw “The Wizard of Oz” in its entirety as I was growing up.

Back in the 60's, that classic film was always on TV on Sunday night. It either came on before I went to church or started so that I saw the end after I got back home. I pieced it together enough that I knew the story, but I never saw it in one sitting until I watched with my oldest child 20 years later.

And for not seeing all of a movie classic, I am thankful. I'm much more thankful now, than I was then.

I am thankful for Corinth Christian Church and the influence it has had on me. Call me old-fashioned, I will wear that badge of my heritage with honor.

If you have never seen that house of worship, it comes up on you kind of quickly. You can be driving either way along Alton Station Road with nothing much around other than the cattle grazing when all of a sudden you see this large building that sits on a small hill. Some of my friends used to joke it was kind of like Emerald City.

But that was not the church.

The church was Mrs. Eudenia, as I called her. Fifty years later, I can still see her entering my pre-school classroom, her red hair never having one strand out of place. At the time, she was a widow, but when she remarried, her husband, Buford, always looked me up after church to talk about the Cincinnati Reds, playing the guitar or to tell me about the fish he'd caught that week. It stayed that way until the day he drew his last breath.

That wonderful church was Mrs. Mary. I can't say I remember a lot about that class of six- to eight-year-olds other than Mrs. Mary got after me one Sunday morning for making fun of one of the other children in the class. Yet, she did so with such grace, it has stayed with me over 40 years.

Who can't be thankful for Imogene? This incredible lady taught kids 9-11 as long as I can remember, encouraging us to just be in church. She encouraged to take part in camp. And, with a simple wisdom she made me think. “What do you do when you want to watch one thing on TV and someone else in your house wants to watch something else,” she asked one Sunday. In a time when most had a single set, often just a black-and-white job, it was an effective way of emphasizing the idea of putting others before yourself.

I think of Gene, the guy who led the teenagers. He'd cut up with us. Never mind that he was kinfolk, I thought he was just cool. The reasons? He sang in a gospel quartet and wore boots. And he cared. At the time, I didn't realize how much he really did care about each of us and even today, I can't put my finger on it. It's just one of those things you know is true.

I am thankful for those preachers – Melvin Styons, Lowell Thornton and Nelson Lee – all of whom helped shape my thinking. None of them were from Kentucky, so they put up with our countless Wildcat basketball jokes. Most importantly they taught the Bible with a passion.

I am thankful for those summer nights when we'd pack that church building with the only air conditioning being open windows and fans from Gordon Funeral Home. Some out-of-town quartet would bring “special music” – I thought the Mel-o-Tones were cool because they had a guy who could flat pick an electric guitar – and a visiting preacher would keep going until he felt like stopping.

Twenty minutes? Are you kidding? That was just the warmup.

And I am thankful for those all day singings and dinner on the ground – or was it all day dinner and singing on the ground?

I'm thankful for all of those people who drove down to the Salt River and turned their cars so the lights would shine to that place along the bank where I was baptized that night in 1969.

Many of those folk have passed on to a wonderful reward. Yet their legacy lives on.

Most of all, I am thankful that my mom and dad made me attend -- yes, there were times they MADE me attend --  that wonderful country church.

Even if it meant missing The Wizard of Oz.