We got lost on the way to Sepulga Baptist Church. We ended up wandering through forty miles of Alabamian countryside to find it.
"Honey," said my wife, after an hour driving. “We've passed that same barn ten times now."
So, I pulled into a squatty general store, next to a forest overgrown with kudzu. A dilapidated place where you can buy everything from Red Man chew to Georgia Pacific toilet paper.
I asked directions. The lady behind the counter spat dark spit into a Styrofoam cup, saying, "Go 'bout a quarter mile d'rectly up yonder 'til y'all hit a fork, hold right a few miles furr' an' y'all're smack-dab
at Sepulga. Got it, darlin'?"
She sent me away with a Ziploc of pecans—no charge.
When we reached the church, it was a little white building with only one truck out front. The Sepulga congregation consists of nine people who all pronounce the word, “power,” like, “par.” And on this particular day, the crowd was a few shy of a baseball team.
Once folks found their seats, seventy-nine-year-old Brother John called from the pulpit, “How're you feeling today, Ricky?”
An elderly man hobbled to his feet, thumbs hitched in…