Welcome to Jesus and the blues

Patchwork, Alabama

Patchwork is not really a spot on the map, but a place in my mind and my heart.

When I was five or six years old my grandmother let me help her with her quilt making. She would spend hours sewing the quilt pieces together (patchwork) and would then stretch them on a large quilt frame in the front bedroom. She was only four feet six inches tall, so she had to stand over the frames to place the batting and the lining on the quilt. Then the quilting began. She created elaborate quilt designs in the patchwork. When I was visiting, she would let me crawl under the quilt and as she pushed the needle downward I would push it back up from my side under her direction. Looking back I am amazed at the incredible patience she must have had to let me help her.

Now I realize that in the many places that I have lived with my parents as a child, and as an adult in the ministry there were many people who had the same incredible patience to teach me how to live and lead as child of God. So, I created Patchwork, Alabama. It is located in the bend of the Tennessee River near the place where I grew up as a child. The residents are a patchwork of the many characters that I have encountered in my life. Some are heroes and some are not. But they all live in this wonderful cotton town in the bend of the river.

Each month you can read a new story from my heart's home town, Patchwork, Alabama.

Baptism at the Creek

It was in the hot June Sun that I made my way to my first church near Patchwork, Alabama for my very first sermon. I was only nineteen years old and a freshman at the university that was almost an hour away. I showed up that first Sunday with hair down to my shoulders, a fu manchu mustache, and a yellow leisure suit. It was the early 70's and boy were they glad see me. The wonderful country folk of the river bend didn't know quite what to think. But, as is always true in Patchwork, they were gracious and forgiving. They were going to give me shot, even if I was the oddest thing they had seen since Horace a local farmer had claimed seeing a UFO in his bean field the summer before.

That first Sunday was a doozy. A quartet sang from the Stamps-Baxter shaped note hymnal to welcome me, and the aunts and grandmas with single daughters were very interested to discover that I was not married. This later produced a number of free meals served by a variety of young ladies in many shapes, sizes and apearances. At the close of the service that Sunday I gave the "Altar Call" as I had seen my Dad do many times from his own pulpit. Much to my surprise a giant of a man named Jack made his way to the altar to give his life to Jesus, be baptized and join the church. I reached around the commuion table to get the little bowl we Methodists use to sprinkle for baptism when Jack informed me that he wanted to be baptized in living (running) water. That meant a trip to the creek. Since this was my first baptism, and I had never seen one done in a creek before, I announced that we would baptize Jack that afternoon at 2:00 p.m. at the Blue Water Creek swimming hole.Which I had been informed was here all such events took place.

My first stop was to call my Dad for instructions. They were simple and clear. Go out into the water until you are waist deep. Place your arm under the candidate's back have them hold their nose. With other hand lay them back in the water and say the words. One very important warning was given. Make sure that the candidate keeps his feet on the ground so you don't drown him. I took special note of this warning.

At 2:00 p.m. at Blue Water Creek the community gathered to see Jack baptized. I didn't know until that moment that he had been somewhat of a scoundrel in the community and that the whole area would turn out for the baptism. I quickly explained to him the procedure that had been explained to me only moments before. I drove home the warning to keep his feet on the bottom, and I would lift him out of the water.

We both stepped into water at the same time, and that's when I discovered why it was called Blue Water Creek. It was the coldest spring fed creek I had ever been in. It almost took your breath away. As we made our way to deeper water, Jack casually mentioned that he could not swim. I reminded him that he needed to keep his feet on the bottom and that would not be a problem, because we were only going waist deep. Therein was the problem. Jack was about six feet five inches and I am only five feet seven inches. When he was waist deep I was treading water. We found a spot in the creek where he could stand in a hole and I could stand on a rock and the baptism began.

I put my arm behind his back to support him, he held his nose, and I laid him back with my other arm with the words, "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." Just as I did his feet popped up. That's when I learned an important liturgical note. Never baptize up stream. Blue Water Creek is fast water leading to the Tennessee River. When Jack's feet popped up he began to float, and he shot out of my arms like a raft in the rapids. He quickly body surfed to water over his head where he began to struggle and gurgle. It looked like he was going down the last time when I finnally reached him swimming. I grabbed him in my boy scout lifesaving grip and dragged him to shore. All the while the crowd on the bank of the creek had been singing, Shall we Gather at the River. They kept singing until Jack was on shore. They all looked at me for some word of wisdom. All I could think of was, "Jack is the only man I have ever known that got saved twice in the same day.

There's more from Patchwork later...email me at rowen@umstewardshipresources.org for more information.