It sits by a cool creek running down from a mountain.
The name of the church is the House of Welcome, Pigeon Roost Free Will Baptist Church.
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.
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.
I wish I could close my eyes and travel back in time.
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.
How I wish I could have been there to hear it.