I was in gnat country this past weekend. Cornfields thick and green. Straight rows that go on forever. About 50 miles east of Macon in the little farming community of Buckeye.

Marion and I drove down on Saturday. She smoked BBQ on Friday and made all the fixings that go with it. Baked beans with bacon and brown sugar. Mac-n-cheese so thick and cheesy that it sticks to the roof of your mouth. Coleslaw perfectly sweet. And peach cobbler good enough to make grown men weep.

My long-time friend, Hank, is the preacher at Buckeye Christian Church. He invited us down to feed the men for an early Father’s Day gathering. Marion laid down the food. I told a few stories. We all sang Amazing Grace at the close of the evening.

One of the older gentlemen came by the table to talk to Marion. A weathered face. A genteel manner. A golden smile.

“Honey, I’ve eaten a lot of peach cobbler in my time, but that cobbler tonight might just be the best I’ve ever eaten.”

Mr. Mervin has about 90 years of experience under his belt, which adds up to a lot of peach cobblers over the decades. For him to say that may have been the best compliment of the night to the cook.

After we cleaned up the kitchen and put the food away, we stepped outside into the suffocating heat of South Georgia. No breeze. Just the thick, warm air that makes your shirt stick to your back. I’m fanning at the gnats circling my ears and my drawers are droopy by the time I get into the truck.

We didn’t drive far. The parsonage is just a hundred yards across the road from the church. But the air conditioning was a welcomed blessing. It had been a long day for us.

Becky, Hank’s wife, says to him, “You gotta tell them your Mr. Mervin story.”

Now, I’ve known Hank a long time. He’s actually a better storyteller than I am. He has sound effects that go with the action in the story.

And this story has to do with fast cars, something I know firsthand that is familiar to Hank. All the years I’ve known him, he has felt the need for speed. Back in our college days, he was famous for his state trooper turn arounds on the highway. He could hit the brakes, spin it and gun it so fast it would throw you against the passenger door and make you want to crawl down in the floorboard.

When I got married in 1978, Hank was the one who chased me through downtown Athens like the Dukes of Hazard. I was in my 1971 Chevelle and he was in his 1972 Montecarlo. I will confess that some smoking tires and erratic lane changes were involved in that chase.

But back to the Mervin story.

Not too long ago, right before a revival service was about to begin, one of the fellas came into the church building and asked Hank if he was giving away the stuff on his carport at the parsonage.

“No,” Hank said with a question on his face.

“Well, there’s a fella over there right now loading up stuff in the back of his car.”

Mr. Mervin was standing there and overheard the news. Without hesitation he said, “Let’s go take a look.”

Mr. Mervin got behind the wheel of his car. Hank jumped in the front passenger seat. Three deacons piled in the back, and off they went.

The got up to the highway just in time to see a Honda Pilot go by like a flash. One of the deacons in the back seat said, “That’s him.” Mr. Mervin pulled out on the highway and put the pedal to the metal.

Mr. Mervin is in hot pursuit. He’s swerving between the white lines on the county black top without too much consideration of the yellow lines in the middle. The men in the back seat are leaning forward. Hank is eyeing the speedometer.

“Mr. Mervin,” he says. “You’re running 90.”

The taillights of the suspect are barely visible in the far distance. Hank gets 911 on the phone.

“We need your help.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re on highway 57 headed east toward Wrightsville.”

“Well, this is Johnson County. You’ll have to call Laurens County.”

The call evidently bounced off the wrong cell tower. They transferred the call.

Laurens County 911: “Where’s the suspect now?”

“About a mile ahead of us. We’re in pursuit not far behind him.”

Mervin was giving it all he had and wasn’t gonna give up. Nobody’s gonna steal from his preacher and get away with it. Not as long as he’s behind the wheel.

By the time they get to town, the guy in the Pilot realizes that he has company on his heels. He’s taking turns left and right trying to elude his pursuers.

“There he goes,” somebody shouts.

Mr. Mervin is on him. This is the Laurens County version of The Fast and The Furious. Finally, the Pilot rounds the corner by the gas station, and the county deputies have him blocked in. There’s nowhere to go.

Mr. Mervin pulls up behind the Pilot. The deacons jump out of the backseat. They’re verifying information with the police.

“Mr. Melton?” The deputy is talking to Hank. “Any of this stuff in the back of this car look familiar to you?”

Hank is casual about the whole thing. “Yes sir. That microwave belongs to me, and that blanket is ours.”

With that, the excitement came to an end. The thief was arrested, and the crack team of deacons, preacher, and Mr. Mervin headed back to the church. They walked in the door just as the invitation hymn began.

Mr. Mervin became the hero of that night. The story was told so many times that his drive in hot pursuit of the lawless criminal achieved legendary status. They named him Swervin Mervin, and to this day even the kids know him by that name.

He was a little embarrassed by all the attention. And once he had time to play it over in his mind, he came back to the revival the next night and apologized for putting everyone at risk.

“I shouldn’t have been driving that fast at my age,” he said.

But no one was having any of that because Swervin Mervin saved the day.

We went to church the next morning before heading back home.

Little country churches with part-time preachers don’t often attract a lot of attention. They don’t make headlines. They don’t build million dollar buildings. They still sing the old hymns along with some of the new songs. They still take prayer requests, and young boys still help the men pass the offering plates.

They are solid in their faith. They have stood for over a century as a witness to the gospel they hold dear.

When the service was over, I wanted to shake Mr. Mervin’s hand. I didn’t mention the story.

His eyes lit up. He had one thing on his mind.

“That sure was some good cobbler last night.”

The Legend lives on.