life

In Honor of My Mother, Lelia Hilda McGill, On What Would Be Her 112th Birthday

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On November 20, 2025, my mother, Lelia Hilda McGill, would have turned 112 years old. Though she has been gone for many years, her life, strength, and remarkable spirit continue to shape me every single day. This is my tribute to the woman who gave me life—and taught me how to live it.

A Childhood Marked by Hardship

Mother, Me, and Stephen, my son

Mama was born in Eucutta, Mississippi, one of seven children in a rural family that worked hard for everything they had. At just seven years old, her life was shaken by a tragedy that would have broken many people: her father was killed in a fight with his own brother over a cow. My great-uncle threw the hub of a wagon wheel that struck my grandfather, and sepsis took his life soon after.

With her mother overwhelmed and resources scarce, Mama was passed from relative to relative, never having a place to truly call home. Finally, at age thirteen, she was placed in a reformatory school. She stayed until the ninth grade, then left to work as a maid.

Life did not deal her an easy hand—but she kept showing up, kept working, and kept believing that something better was possible.

A Love Story Born in Unexpected Places

Mama met my father while working in the home where he was boarding. Daddy was forty—a widower whose wife had died from stomach cancer. Mama was nineteen. Their courtship lasted just three weeks. They married quickly, and their first home was a railroad car, because Daddy was an engineer on the Dummy Rail Line for the Wausau Lumber Company.

Daddy was also an alcoholic, but Mama was a woman of deep faith. Raised in the Eucutta Presbyterian Church, she was religious, steady, and firm in her convictions. She eventually put her foot down: if he wanted a family with her, the drinking had to end. And it did. Slowly, Daddy began attending church, and eventually he became a preacher.

Her faith didn’t just change her life—it changed his.

A Life of Work, Sacrifice, and Love

Mama and Daddy bought a farm and raised five children. I was the youngest of the bunch. Life on the farm was hard, and Daddy, for all the changes he made, could still be abusive—physically and mentally. Mama endured more than any woman should have to. But she endured it with strength, and she gave her five children steady love, safety, and encouragement.

She worked in the fields, kept the house spotless, cooked for the whole family, and somehow managed to keep joy alive in our home. To this day, I can almost smell her banana pudding, pineapple pudding, and fruit cobblers baking in the oven. Her biscuits were soft, warm, and unforgettable. She used to tell us, “We might be poor, but we can be clean,” and she lived that motto out every day.

Mama hummed and sang while she worked, her voice drifting through the house like a gentle balm. Her favorite hymns were What a Friend We Have in Jesus, In the Garden, and The Old Rugged Cross. Those songs became the soundtrack of my childhood—and the anchor of her soul.

For many years, she never drove. But when Daddy died—when I was fourteen—she got her driver’s license and went to work to support our family. She became a nurse’s aide at the charity hospital, and later a dorm mother at a school for the mentally handicapped. She poured herself into those children, teaching them how to take care of themselves. She won awards for her work, but the real reward was the dignity and compassion she gave her students.

A New Home and a New Season

In her seventies, Mama bought herself a three-bedroom brick house—a dream she had worked toward for decades. That house was her pride and joy. She kept the yard full of flowers, just as she kept her heart full of laughter and faith. She read her Scofield Bible faithfully and never missed church. No matter how hard her life had been, she always found something positive to say.

And her smile—her smile could light up a room.

The Final Years

In her mid-eighties, Mama suffered a fall that caused bleeding in her brain, which led to dementia. Even then, the tenderness she had lived her whole life with seemed to shine through the fog. She would look at me with that same gentle expression—the one that had carried me through childhood, adolescence, and adulthood.

Mama always allowed me to make my own decisions. And when a choice didn’t turn out well, she never said, “I told you so.” Instead, she’d simply say,

“Learn from it and grow.”

That was her way—grace always over judgment, patience always over anger, and love always over fear.

I Miss Her

As I look back on her life—her childhood pain, her resilience, her faith, her laughter, her songs, her sacrifices, her quiet wisdom—I realize how much of who I am came from who she was.

I miss her deeply. But I carry her with me: in the choices I make, in the love I give, and in the hope I hold onto when life gets hard.

Happy heavenly birthday, Mama.
Your legacy lives on—in me, in our family, and in all the people whose lives you touched.

Growing Up on a Farm in Greene County, Mississippi: The Foundation of My Life

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A reflection by Roy Pearson

I grew up on a small farm in rural Greene County, Mississippi, during the 1950s—a world far removed from the conveniences and noise that surround us today. Ours was a life of hard work, simple pleasures, deep roots, and lessons that would quietly shape the direction of my entire life. I was the youngest of five children: Sue (1935), George (1937), Ted (1940), and Hilda (1946) came before me. I arrived in 1949, the last one in a long line of siblings who were already seasoned farmhands by the time I learned to walk.

My parents’ story began long before I was born. Mama was just 19 and Daddy was 40 when they married in 1933. Their first home wasn’t a farmhouse at all—it was an old railroad car in the Wausau Lumber Company Camp. Daddy worked as an engineer on the rails that hauled logs to the big sawmill in Laurel, Mississippi. It was a humble beginning, but it was theirs. And like so many families of that generation, they built a life out of grit, faith, and whatever the land would give them.

By the time I was two or three, Daddy bought a farm in Greene County. That farm became the world where my childhood unfolded. We raised a huge garden, not only to feed ourselves but to ship vegetables to farmers’ markets around the nation. We tended cotton, watermelons, corn, and sugar cane. We kept milk cows, pigs, and chickens. There was always something to be done, something growing, something needing attention. Life on the farm had a way of teaching responsibility before a boy could even spell the word.

I was curious from the very beginning—always exploring, always asking questions—even though I had one significant fear: snakes. We had a creek running through our property, and Hilda and I often spent our summer days there. She swam; I only waded, keeping a wary eye out for anything that slithered. One day I caught what I thought was a snake on my fishing pole. I dropped the pole, ran home in a panic, and breathlessly announced that a snake was attacking my line. Daddy and my siblings followed me back—only to find an eel thrashing at the end of my hook. I became the object of teasing for days, but the story still makes me smile.

My imagination grew alongside my curiosity. Daddy always seemed to have spare lumber lying around, and my friend Danny and I “borrowed” some to build a church of our own. We managed to hammer together a floor, but the walls never materialized. I appointed myself the preacher and delivered sermons to Danny with all the seriousness I could muster. I was only mimicking Daddy’s style—strong, simple, and steady—but I had no idea that preaching would eventually become my calling after Daddy passed away when I was just fourteen.

Some of my earliest memories are of accompanying Daddy to funerals. He had only a fourth-grade education, yet he carried a gift for preaching that came straight from the heart. His sermons rarely lasted more than twenty minutes—he believed the Word didn’t need embellishing. Mama had a much harder time keeping me still in church; her pinches were legendary. But even while squirming in the pew, I listened. I watched Daddy minister to families in their grief. I observed his compassion, his humility, and the respect he earned from those he served.

Those nine years on the farm were more than a childhood—they were seeds quietly planted in the soil of my life. Farming teaches you to look closely, to ask questions, to search for answers in the rhythms of nature and the wisdom of those who came before you. It teaches you patience, perseverance, and faith. And it taught me to love learning—to look beneath the surface of things, both in the world around me and in the Scriptures that would shape my future ministry.

Looking back now, I see clearly that the creeks, the cotton fields, the vegetable rows, the old lumber scraps, and even the fear of snakes were part of the foundation God was laying in my life. The farm raised more than crops—it raised a boy who would one day become a pastor, a seeker, a teacher, and a lifelong student of truth.

Those early years in Greene County remain some of the richest soil my life has ever known.

The Front Porch: Where Stories, Conversations, and Connections Happened

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Growing up on a farm in Greene County, Mississippi, during the 1950s, life was different in a way that’s hard to describe in today’s world of constant connectivity. We didn’t have phones, we didn’t have television, and the nearest neighbor was a mile away. Yet, somehow, the front porch became the heartbeat of our home—a place where the day’s work could be set aside, the heat of the Mississippi sun could be felt in the evening breeze, and life’s most meaningful conversations took place.

Our house sat along Union to Piavue Road, an unpaved path where the clop of horse hooves was as common as the rumble of a distant car. But that was part of its charm—everything was a little slower, a little quieter, and the front porch was our bridge to the outside world.

The porch was filled with rocking chairs and spots to sit, a simple setup, but it was where we spent so much of our time. After dinner, after a long day working in the fields, and often before bed, we gathered there. Conversations drifted between neighbors, family, and strangers alike. The absence of distractions created a kind of sacred space for sharing stories, exchanging ideas, and learning from one another.

My father, George—who everyone called Preacher—was both a farmer and a pastor, a man who wore many hats but never seemed to get too busy to sit and talk. People often stopped by—sometimes on foot, sometimes in a car—just to chat, to share news, or to seek counsel. The porch became a place of connection for people from all walks of life.

I remember one evening in particular, the porch heavy with the sounds of crickets and the hum of warm, still air. Uncle Jim, my dad’s older brother, had come over, and the conversation turned to the 1960 Presidential Election. That was a big topic in our part of the world—a Democrat running against the backdrop of the South’s long history with the party. But what made it especially interesting was the fact that John F. Kennedy was a Catholic, and that was a point of debate in our household, too. As Uncle Jim and Dad discussed the significance of electing a Catholic president in the South, I listened, trying to make sense of what this election meant for our country. The porch, as it so often did, became a space where politics, faith, and history converged, and where I was quietly schooled in the art of conversation and critical thinking.

The porch was also where my father, a man of deep conviction and wisdom, often engaged in discussions about theology. His two sisters, Aunt Bess and Aunt Verna, would visit, and the conversations would shift from politics to faith. Dad knew how to make others think, often using the Bible to draw parallels, share insight, and challenge the way people viewed the world. He had an easy way of connecting with people, of speaking in a way that wasn’t too preachy but still profoundly thoughtful. It wasn’t just about religion—it was about how to live well, how to be kind, how to make sense of a difficult world. These talks, often in the quiet of the evening, left a lasting impact on me. They taught me that conversation could be a means of growth, that sharing ideas could build understanding and strengthen relationships.

And then there was Joe Grantham, one of Dad’s dear friends. Joe would often come by the farm to visit, and his favorite topic of conversation was baseball. Dad had played semi-pro baseball for the Laurel Lumberjacks, and his love for the game never faded. He was a devoted St. Louis Cardinals fan, and those porch talks would often spiral into deep discussions about the players, the games, and the soul of the sport. For me, it was a window into my father’s passions, his youth, and his love of the things that made him feel alive.

Those were the days when the front porch was truly the center of our lives. It was a place of refuge, a gathering point for families and friends, a place to celebrate, to reflect, and to be real. I miss those moments, the way the porch was a stage for so much of our family life, a gathering point for both big and small conversations. It was a place to build relationships, to create memories, and to pass down wisdom from one generation to the next.

Today, many of us don’t spend much time sitting outside, listening to the sounds of crickets or chatting with family on the front porch. Life is faster now, and the need to be constantly connected through technology has made the simple, quiet moments seem almost obsolete. But I often think back to those times, and I realize how much of who I am was shaped by those conversations—the ones that unfolded on the front porch, under the vast sky of Mississippi.

As I think about those days, I can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for those slow evenings, those porch talks that taught me not just about politics, religion, or baseball—but about the importance of being present, of connecting with others, and of making time to truly listen. The front porch wasn’t just a place to sit; it was a place to learn, to grow, and to deepen the ties that bind us as families and as communities.

The lessons of the front porch are timeless. We don’t need phones, we don’t need a television, to make memories with the people we care about. Sometimes, all we need is a chair, a good conversation, and the willingness to be present. That’s something I’ll always carry with me, wherever I go.

Porchlights and Fireflies: A Song That Took Me Back Home

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The first nine years of my life were spent on a small farm in rural Greene County, Mississippi. Life was simple, and by today’s standards, some might even say primitive. We didn’t have a telephone or television, and there was no central heat or air conditioning. Our “running water” came from the well in our front yard, and our bathroom was a little outhouse tucked away under the trees.

Mom washed our clothes in a big cast iron pot over an open fire, scrubbing them clean by hand before hanging them on the barbed wire fence to dry in the sun. Our home was small but full of love and laughter. The front room, where my parents slept, also held the fireplace that kept us warm through cold Mississippi winters. There was no couch or sofa — just a few chairs and the warmth of family gathered close.

My sisters, Sue and Hilda, shared a bed in one room, while my brothers, George and Ted, and I shared a double bed in another. The kitchen was the heart of the home, with a wood stove for cooking and a table big enough for all of us to gather around for meals.

When we weren’t in school, we were working in the fields. Our little farm produced cotton, watermelons, sugar cane, and a huge garden that fed us year-round. It was hard work, but it taught me the value of family and perseverance.

Evenings were the sweetest part of the day. In the summertime, we sat on the front porch and talked while the world around us grew quiet. My older brothers and sisters told ghost stories that scared me half to death — and yet, I wouldn’t have traded those nights for anything. When darkness settled in, we chased lightning bugs across the yard or dug for worms to take fishing in the creek that ran nearby.

In the winter, we gathered around the fireplace, visiting and talking while the wood crackled and popped. Life was hard, but it was also filled with moments of warmth and togetherness that shaped who I am today.

Recently, I heard Michael DuBois’ song Porchlights and Fireflies, and it carried me straight back to those days on the farm. The lyrics painted pictures in my mind of long summer evenings, simple living, and the magic of a childhood spent close to nature and family.

Listening to that song, I could almost smell the wood smoke from our fireplace and feel the cool Mississippi night air on my skin. I remembered the sound of the screen door slamming, the laughter of my siblings, and the glow of lightning bugs dancing through the dark.

Times have certainly changed. We have conveniences now that my younger self couldn’t have even imagined — smartphones, streaming TV, air conditioning, and indoor plumbing. But Michael DuBois’ song reminded me that some things never change. The love of family, the bond of shared stories, and the beauty of a summer night under the stars are timeless.

Every time I hear Porchlights and Fireflies, I am reminded of those early years — a boy running barefoot through the grass, free and full of wonder. And for a moment, I am home again.

A Tribute to Michael DuBois

Michael DuBois is a singer-songwriter who channels raw emotion into acoustic-driven, heartfelt country-folk music. His YouTube channel prominently features Porch Lights and Fireflies, alongside other singles like We Were August and Sunset Season YouTube+1.

His song Porch Lights and Fireflies is a recent release (2025), available on platforms like Apple Music as a standalone single Apple Music – Web PlayerSpotify. The YouTube video for the song has gained traction, showcasing DuBois’s storytelling style and earnest vocals YouTube+1

Thank you, Michael, for taking me back to the farm that I wanted to leave but now cherish what i learned and cherished there.

Becoming a Bridge Builder in Springfield, Missouri

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In a time when America feels increasingly divided, it’s tempting to think that the only choices are to take sides or to withdraw altogether. But I believe there is another path—one that we can walk right here in Springfield, Missouri. It’s the path of being a bridge builder.

At its heart, bridge building means working to connect people who might otherwise remain apart. It’s about creating space for respect, conversation, and common purpose—even when we don’t see eye to eye.

Recently, I came across a pledge that captures this calling beautifully:

“I commit to resist political extremes. I will think humbly, speak respectfully, seek common good, and live as a bridge-builder in my community. I will not let anger or fear decide my politics, but will work for fairness, dignity, and shared humanity.”

Those words resonate with me, because Springfield—like much of our country—is home to people with very different views on politics, faith, culture, and the future. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we do have to live alongside each other.

So how can we live out this pledge right here in Springfield?

1. Practice Respectful Conversations

Whether it’s talking with neighbors in the grocery store, coworkers at lunch, or family around the table, I want to replace “winning arguments” with listening. Respectful conversations open doors that debates slam shut.

2. Support Local Solutions

Springfield faces real challenges—affordable housing, mental health care, food insecurity, and public safety among them. These issues don’t have “conservative” or “liberal” labels; they have human faces. By volunteering at places like Ozarks Food Harvest or The Kitchen, Inc., I can connect with others who may not share my politics but who share my care for the community.

3. Show Up Across Divides

Springfield is blessed with diverse faith communities, civic groups, and service organizations. Attending interfaith events, community forums, or neighborhood meetings means I get to hear voices beyond my usual circle. That’s how bridges are built—by showing up where divides exist.

4. Celebrate Shared Values

At the end of the day, most of us want the same things: safe neighborhoods, opportunities for our kids, fairness, and dignity for all. If I start my conversations with these shared values, we’ll find more common ground than we expect.

5. Model the Spirit of Fairness and Compassion

I can’t change Springfield overnight, but I can change how I show up in it. When I refuse to use insults, when I listen first, when I give people the benefit of the doubt, I am quietly shifting the atmosphere. That may sound small—but small acts of compassion ripple outward.

Springfield has long been called the “Queen City of the Ozarks.” I like to think that means we can also lead by example. What if Springfield became known as a place where people disagree without tearing each other down, where common good comes before political points, where neighbors build bridges instead of walls?

That’s the Springfield I want to be part of. And that’s why I take the pledge—not as a lofty ideal, but as a daily practice, right here where I live.