A Reflection by Roy Pearson

I grew up in the red clay hills of South Mississippi, where farming shaped our days and faith shaped our lives. My father was both a farmer and a preacher—a bi-vocational calling that was very common in those days. He pastored anywhere from two to five small rural churches at a time, driving between them when we had a car, and walking the miles between them when we didn’t. Some weekends he walked all Saturday just to make Sunday possible.

Those churches—white-painted, wooden-framed, and planted deep in the poorest state in the nation during the 1950s and 60s—were the backdrop of my childhood. They were simple places, but to me they were sacred.

The Soundtrack of the Country Church

If there was one thing country churches had plenty of, it was music. Our worship services were filled to overflowing with Southern Gospel singing—the kind that shook the rafters and stirred the soul. Much of it came from the old Stamps-Baxter shape-note hymnals. People sang parts not because they had formal training but because they had grown up reading the shapes—hearts, diamonds, squares—each one telling them what note to sing.

My father believed in happy music, the kind that lifted tired spirits and gave poor, hardworking people a taste of hope. We sang “Jesus, Hold My Hand,” “The Royal Telephone,” “When We All Get to Heaven,” and many others that still echo in my memory.

And while many preachers of the era believed in long sermons, my father didn’t. He preached his heart out in about twenty minutes. “People can only absorb so much,” he would say, “but they can sing all day.”

A Church With No Nursery, No Children’s Program—Just Family

There was no nursery, no children’s church, no programs or performance. Worship was fully intergenerational. Women sat in the back to feed their babies or lay them on pallets made of quilts on the wooden floor. Children squirmed beside parents and grandparents, soaked in every sound and every story.

And almost every week, children would gather down front during the service. We’d quote Scripture verses, sing “Jesus Loves Me,” or march in place to “I’m in the Lord’s Army.” It didn’t matter if we sang on key. It mattered that we belonged.

Dinner on the Grounds

On special occasions—Homecoming, Revival, or Fifth Sunday—we held what we called “dinner on the grounds.” The church had no kitchen, so the women cooked at home and brought everything in heavy dishes wrapped in towels. Long tables were built outside especially for these feasts.

If heaven has a buffet, it might look like those Mississippi church dinners. Fried chicken crisped just right, chicken and dumplings thick with love, potato salad made from family recipes handed down like heirlooms, fresh vegetables straight out of someone’s garden. And the desserts! Coconut cakes with seven-minute frosting that tasted like a cloud, coconut pies, apple pies, and banana puddings that disappeared in minutes.

My father had his own strategy: “If you want to be first in line,” he said, “just agree to bless the food.” He was rarely second.

A Simple Church With Simple Means

We had no indoor plumbing. Behind the church stood two outhouses, and everyone used them without complaint. In the summer, the building became an oven; hand-held fans from the local funeral home kept the air moving. In the winter, propane space heaters glowed like small suns along the walls.

Most families walked to church, sometimes several miles. Many had only one pair of shoes, so they would carry them and walk barefoot until they reached the church steps. For communion services, when we observed Feet Washing, the water had to be changed often from washing the dust off tired, calloused feet.

We were poor—every one of us—but our poverty never stole our joy.

Joy, Celebration, and Real Faith

What I remember most about the country church is that despite the hardships—poverty, heat, cold, long walks, and missing modern conveniences—the services were filled with celebration. There was a deep sense of joy and hope that came from people who believed God was real and faith was essential.

We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And week after week, in those simple wooden buildings, my love for the church was born.

Today, when worship can be polished, programmed, and professional, I often think back to those country churches in South Mississippi. They taught me that faith doesn’t need perfection—it just needs sincerity. Music doesn’t need to be flawless—it just needs to be heartfelt. And church isn’t about buildings—it’s about people who gather to believe together.

Those early years shaped me, and the memories stay warm. They remind me that God has always been present in the simplest places, among the humblest people, doing the quiet, steady work of grace.