Member-only story
Our Secret
Sardis Church sits atop a ridge centered in a small clearing. Red clay clouds trail from shiny cars and farm trucks pulling in for this annual gathering. They trail around the circular drive, barely moving as drivers do their dead level best not to dust the folks setting up for dinner on the ground.
Each vehicle comes to a stop in the same spot as the year before and the year before that. The families gather in their set places. While these positions on the makeshift plywood table are not officially assigned and there’s no spoken hierarchy, everyone knows which families and their mains, sides and desserts go where. No arguing, elbowing or calling dibs.
My family collects at the end closest to the cemetery in one of the shadiest spots. I never thought to ask why. Tablecloths of red and white gingham overlap those of blue and green daintily embroidered at the edges. Coolers packed with ice, water and soft drinks fill in below. Gallon milk jugs repurposed for sweet tea are scattered strategically up and down the table.
From across the yard and years, I hear my mother urging my grandmother to go on in the church and get a good seat. We’ll take the freshly cut gladiolas out to the cemetery and be along in just…
