House of Welcome & The Rock ~

We drove over 300 miles, looking for a rock.

Not just any rock, this was a very special rock.

It sits by a cool creek running down from a mountain.

The creek bank is this rock's resting place and has been, for who knows how many years.

It sits on the front lawn of a small country church. The area instantly instills pure serenity in you.

The fields lie nearby, with wildflowers in full bloom. The butterflies fly from one flower, and on to the next.

The sunshine underscores the deep green of the quiet valley community, the sun simply smiles down on the place.

The name of the church is the House of Welcome, Pigeon Roost Free Will Baptist Church.

The rock is the same one that a young Stevette, Bill, and Leonard, are sitting on top of , in a old picture that Hilda gave me.

We had found the rock.

I was elated to know, without a shadow of a doubt, this was the church named and pastored by our Uncle John Henry Arwood.

It sits in a quiet stretch of the community, with the cold creek running right past it. Those creek waters have flowed, all through these years, past all the seasons that this precious country church has seen.

I wish those creek waters could talk, what a story they would have to tell. Joyous weddings, somber funerals, and countless services have been held at this country church all through these years.

Sweet Mrs. Peterson from Poplar, had given me some of her plants while we visited. I stopped along that creek that flows in front of the church, and made my way down the bank, to get a cup full of that water for my plants. The water was clear and cold. The creek rocks were worn smooth from generations of water flowing over them.

Time has flowed on past, through the years, like water over those rocks and the world has moved on from

those simpler times.

You can feel that this place is from another era, but it remains as it was, still today.

A step back into time almost. A step back toward "home".

I wish I could close my eyes and travel back in time.

To the time that my grandfather's family lived here.

I can almost hear the piano music coming from the tiny church, as voices rise in unison, singing those old beloved hymns, that are so familiar and comforting. I hear the music fade away as Rev. John Henry rises to stand at the pulpit, ready to deliver his Sunday sermon, his Bible in his hand. I can almost see him standing there, smiling, his congregation looking up at him, with paper fans busily cooling themselves from the noontime heat .

I can see Nora sitting in the congregation, her gaze affixed to the man she has given her heart to, the father of her children. She sits there, straight-backed, and smiling, up at Uncle John. He smiles back at her.

In his later years, I was told by an Aunt, that his body would weaken during the course of his preaching, causing him to have to lie down in the pew to gather his strength. Once rested, he would stand back up, and continue delivering his sermon.

John Henry Arwood, goes on that particular day, to deliver a heartfelt sermon, that few will soon forget.

How I wish I could have been there to hear it.