Growing up in the rural South, religion wasn’t just a belief system; it was woven into the very fabric of who you were. Asking a Southerner about their religious background is like asking them to unpack their entire identity. I’ve navigated those identity-probing questions myself, and looking back, my spiritual compass was largely set by my Ninny. She identified as “Methodist,” but her faith was a vibrant, unique tapestry woven from non-denominational threads, Pentecostal fervor, Holiness traditions, and a dash of Church of God spirit. Her religious zeal was rarely matched, except perhaps by my Papa’s equally intense love for a different kind of spirit – the alcoholic kind.
My other grandparents were the picture of “respectable” Methodists. Their Sundays were a structured rhythm of church in the morning, church in the evening, and Wednesday night Bible study. Sunday School was a weekly event, complete with felt Bible figures, offering dimes, a familiar hymn, and a sermon that was gentle, or as gentle as fire and brimstone theology could be, delivered in three neat points.
Every Sunday morning, I found myself in that small, quaint, rural Methodist church with Grandmother and Granddaddy. My parents, as adults, were more of the Christmas and Easter churchgoers. Though, the potent Southern weapon of maternal guilt could occasionally draw them to a Decoration Day or an All-Day Singing. For these occasions, I was dressed in lacy socks and shiny black patent shoes, itchy lace pinafores, and tight pigtails that pulled my face taut. I’d fidget on the smooth, polished wooden pews, knowing every hymn by heart, often drifting to sleep in my grandmother’s lap as the preacher’s sermon droned on for what felt like an eternity. These hymns were the expected Church Songs of my childhood.
But then there was Ninny’s “church,” which was less a place and more of an anytime, anywhere experience. The rest of my week was spent trailing behind her, a tiny shadow exploring the countryside. We were regulars at every revival, gospel preaching, and prayer meeting she could find. From the televised sermons of Oral Roberts and Jimmy Swaggart in her living room to gatherings in cold garages, empty warehouses, and humble one-room schoolhouses, Ninny’s church was wherever faith could be found. I sat on rusty folding chairs, plush velvet pews, and worn wooden benches. The lively syncopation of people speaking in tongues, punctuated by the rhythmic shouts of women proclaiming “Hallelujah,” “Amen,” and “Thank you, Sweet Jesus!” became the soundtrack of my childhood. No two services were ever the same; everyone simply acted as “the Spirit” moved them, whether it was to pray, shout, dance, or even recite Shakespeare. Everything was considered sacred when done in Jesus’ name. These experiences broadened my understanding of what a church song or worship could be.
At the tender age of two, the distinctions between these religious worlds were still blurry for me. Most of the time, this wasn’t a problem. However, one crisp Autumn Sunday, the song leader at Grandmother and Granddaddy’s “respectable” church was mysteriously absent, reportedly due to a sudden “flu”—what was more commonly understood as a hangover. This absence created a gap in the usual service, a challenge for the young, earnest, and visibly nervous minister. He was new to the congregation, his youthful uncertainty as palpable as a toddler clinging to their mother’s leg. His voice even occasionally cracked with nerves. Approaching the congregation, he seemed to brace himself as if facing a firing squad – pale face, wide eyes, knuckles white as he gripped the lectern. While no one in that church would ever dream of throwing anything, he still evoked the image of those old Vaudeville performers dodging imaginary rotten tomatoes. And then, he made a classic rookie mistake. Innocently, he asked if anyone in the congregation would be willing to volunteer a song. It’s a good thing he chose ministry over law; in a courtroom, such lack of precision could have been his downfall. As it was, it didn’t bode well for the immediate moment. He clearly expected a church song.
My pudgy little two-year-old fist shot into the air, fueled by a toddler’s desire for attention and a genuine, if nascent, love for Jesus. The minister, it seemed, had made a subtle assumption that was completely lost on my toddler brain. He assumed everyone understood he was asking for a church song. And to be fair, everyone except me probably did.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, thick and heavy like molasses. Words hung in the air, and a collective realization seemed to dawn on the congregation simultaneously as the minister pointed in my direction. Thankfully, the sheer shock held everyone in their pews long enough for me to seize my unexpected moment in the spotlight. Without hesitation, I began my performance, standing tall on the pew for maximum visibility. I launched into as heartfelt an a cappella rendition of “Delta Dawn” as any worship service has likely ever witnessed. This says less about my singing prowess and more about the sheer unlikelihood of such an event occurring in a Methodist church song service. In my defense, not that a two-year-old needs one, the line about “mansions in the sky” easily elevated this country-western tune to hymnal status, aligning perfectly with the themes of other church songs I knew!
I sang every verse and chorus with gusto. I even included the bridge and the dramatic key change – the whole shebang.
