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Feeding the Preachers
Ronda Rich
A while back, I found myself on a rural backroad that is now a blacktop, but I remember when it was nothing more than red dirt that left a swirl of dust behind the back end of a car or marred its wheels in mud that stuck to the whitewall tires like putty. Of all my childhood summers spent as the daughter of a tri-vocational preacher (Daddy was a farmer, a mechanic and, on Sundays, he held forth as the pastor of a rural congregation), I realized that it was that church – Town Creek Baptist – that I recall most vividly for an entire week of twice-daily services during one particular revival. I was nine. I don’t recall the particular songs we sang that year or what scriptures were preached. Surely, “Just As I Am” was sung and some man preached at least one sermon from the book of John.
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