We were running late. I hadn’t gauged the travel time right. You’d think as much as I’ve made this trip over the years, I’d know how long it takes.

Thing is, I do know. It’s an hour and a half from my driveway to Hampton, Georgia. Marion and I were making the trip to be at Berea Christian Church for Homecoming. This is their 170th year.

We go up the back steps and into the hall where the meal will be. We have a couple of pies to deliver before we head to the sanctuary. It’s 10:30 and the service is starting. We’ll have to sneak in quietly.

“Don’t go in that door.” I say to Marion. “If you do, the whole congregation will be looking right at you.”

“Can we make a potty break somewhere first?” she pleads.

We are later by the minute, but my bladder is full, too. So, it’s down the steps and into the old fellowship hall.

I exit the facilities first and have a minute to stand quietly with my thoughts. There’s a lot of memories in the shadows around me. The room seems small to me now after all these years.

I can see men serving breakfast on Easter morning after the sunrise service. Christmas and fifth Sunday dinners with tables so full of food you’d think they’d bow under the weight. The room over in the far corner, that’s where the high school class met on Sunday mornings.

My parents held their 50th wedding anniversary in this room. Back then, they were only about three years older than I am now. This coming October, that event would have been thirty-one years ago. Cousins and friends standing around. Lots of pictures. The kind of moment you never forget.

There’s a set of steps from the basement up to the foyer outside the sanctuary. As Marion and I tip toe quietly, I hear the preacher asking, “Anyone in the crowd today who has been with Berea for more than 50 years?”

When we stepped through the back doorway into the room, I could see several folks standing up in response. I knew them all. And even though we’re standing just because we are looking for a place to sit, I also know that I should be standing with them.

There’s not many of us left who remember the “old building.” This one was built and occupied by Berea in 1970. It’s 54 years old and I still call it the new building. The old one across town now belongs to a Haitian congregation, but she’s still standing. My people are buried in the cemetery that surrounds it. I walked the sloped aisle and was baptized there. I sat in those pews on summer mornings and waited on the oscillating fans to send me a cool breeze.

Today, I’m sitting in a very comfortable padded chair that sits directly over an air conditioning vent in the floor.

The service was good. David always does a nice job. He didn’t preach, instead he invited a few folks to share “their story” about what Berea means to them. Jan, who’s been around this church for about 40 years, spoke of Sunday School, and Christmases, and the donkey that got away one year. Another couple, almost brand new to the church, talked about the incredible changes that had taken place in their lives.

All of it reminded me that even though I am sometimes connected to the past more than the present, it’s the present that defines who we are. It’s tempting to keep the past alive. We should remember. We should learn from those who have gone before us. We should not forget.

But the present moment is the one that is breathing and living. Today is the only day that has a future. What we do and how we live right now determines how we will face tomorrow and how we will be remembered as time passes on.

It seems to me that old Berea is doing okay at that.

Hugs are a big part of a homecoming. And after the last “amen” there were plenty to be had.

We were swarmed by the church ladies. They wanted to say “hi” to me, but what they really wanted was to meet Marion. She got exactly 347 hugs from just three ladies before we ever made it out of our aisle between the chairs.

These Sweethearts read my goofy stories. This is how they know about Marion. I get messages on my phone from the ones who taught me in Sunday School in 1966. They still look out for me. They still expect things from me.

“You take good care of her. She’s a keeper.”

I guess it’s true. You can take a man out of his hometown, but you can’t take the hometown out of the man. These ladies will never let me forget where I come from.

The gymnasium is set up with tables. The room is abuzz with conversation. The first thing I spot on the way in is the dessert table up against the righthand wall. It’s always a good strategy to have a plan for dessert before heading to the main serving table.

We make our way down the tables strung together. I’m relieved to see that fried chicken still has a place at homecoming. I can’t imagine my plate without a fried chicken leg on it.

Someone brought a plate of church eggs which, in case you don’t know, is the proper name for deviled eggs.

There are two legends as to the origin of this name. I am credited, in the annals of Berean history, with the first ever naming of “church eggs” because the only time I ever saw them was when Mama made them for a church meal. The other and less popular version is that I called them church eggs because my mama told me we shouldn’t say “deviled” in the Lord’s house.

I’m here to say that the first explanation is the real legend. You can ask the church ladies if you don’t believe me.

Once my plate was clean, I moved on to the dessert table. I noticed the coconut cake, but I decided to pass because I knew that nothing held a candle to Mary Kate’s coconut cake. She’s gone on to be with the Lord and I suppose took her cake with her. I got the banana pudding instead.

Back at the table, however, we talked about the cake. Others took a slice. It was falling apart it was so moist. Piece by piece it was disappearing from its platter.

I commented, “It might be good, but I bet it’s not as good as Mary Kate’s.”

Pete looked up and pointed out the guy who made it.

“He got the recipe from Mary Kate.”

You gotta know what that means. Getting the recipe from Mary Kate is like getting a list of everything held at Area 51. Some secrets are just not shared.

This was a good day full of laughter and warm hugs. Lots of things that bring gratitude to mind. But I have one regret.

I should’ve had the cake.