I'm coming home

Growing up in the South, particularly in a church-going family, certain traditions become ingrained in you—homecomings being one of them. These annual gatherings, especially in Baptist churches, were more than just an event; they were a cornerstone of our community. Every summer, churches in the area would set aside a Sunday for former and current members to reunite for a day filled with worship, singing, and, of course, an abundance of food.

My family attended North Acres Baptist Church, a place steeped in history for us. My grandfather, Preacher Edd Spencer, was not only the founder but also served as the pastor there for 19 years until his passing in 1972. Afterward, Granny Spencer continued to attend and played the piano for another 20 years until her death. The original church building is no longer there, having made way for a Lowe’s Home Improvement center. However, the spirit of North Acres lives on in a new building just a few miles down the road on Millertown Pike.

North Acres knew how to host a homecoming. The church would be packed, and the aroma of homemade dishes would fill the air. My mother was always one of the first to arrive, helping set up tables laden with food. By 10:30 a.m., we’d be filing into the sanctuary, hoping the preacher wouldn't be too long winded, as our thoughts inevitably drifted to the feast waiting outside.

As a child, I remember being barely six years old, squirming in the pew, eager for the moment the preacher would finally say, "Amen." The second that final word was uttered, I’d bolt out the side door, racing towards the fellowship building where the food was laid out. You’d need to be an Olympic sprinter to keep up with me then!

The line for the fellowship hall would quickly snake through the churchyard and into the parking lot. I always loved hearing the adults catch up, sharing stories and laughter. It was a time of genuine joy and reconnection. But there was one thing you had to be quick about: Granny’s chicken and dumplings. Despite the enormous pot she’d bring, it would vanish in the blink of an eye. My strategy was simple: pile my plate high with dumplings first and worry about the rest of the meal later.

Once we had our plates full, my sisters and I would find a spot to sit—usually on the church steps. This is where my younger sister, Jennifer, often found herself at our beck and call. “Hey, Jenny, how about running over there and getting me another Coke?” I’d ask, and off she’d go. Jennifer was like Pam’s and my personal assistant, though not unwillingly. It wasn’t until she got older that she realized we were taking advantage of her. But isn’t that what older siblings do?

After we’d eaten our fill, it was time to head back inside for more singing. It’s ironic, really, that we’d sing right after eating—probably the worst time for your voice and breath control. But that didn’t stop anyone. The singing would go on for hours, and while I loved singing as much as anyone, there were limits. Homecomings attracted all sorts of singers—some incredibly talented, others, well, not so much. The not-so-talented ones always seemed to have the longest sets. They’d shuffle up to the front, notebook in hand, and with a sheepish smile, say something like, “Just pray for us. We ain’t practiced, and we’ve all got sinus infections, but don’t listen to how we sing, listen to the words.” That’s when I knew we were in for a long haul. It was what I now call an old-timey endurance contest.

Of course, not all the singers were bad. There were always some regulars everyone enjoyed, like a blind man named Ray Dockery who had a voice that could move you. My mother, too, would often be asked to sing “I’ve Been to Calvary,” a request she’d fulfill with grace.

By the time the singing finally wrapped up, it would be around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon. We’d gather up our empty pots and pans, load them into the car, and head home. Evening services were canceled, giving us time to sit around, digesting both the food and the memories of another successful homecoming. Our bellies and our hearts were full.

Homecomings aren’t quite the same these days as they were back then. The warmth, the connection, and the simple joys of those gatherings seem like they belong to a different era. How I wish I could be transported back in time for just one more homecoming at North Acres. The laughter, the familiar faces, the taste of Granny’s chicken and dumplings—all of it is etched in my memory like a cherished treasure.

But as much as I long for those days, I find comfort in knowing that an even greater homecoming awaits us. One day, we will gather around the Lord’s table for the ultimate homecoming, where there will be no end to the joy, the fellowship, and the love we share. It will be a reunion like no other, a time when all the saints, past and present, will come together in the presence of the Lord. That’s the homecoming I look forward to now—the greatest homecoming ever.