The Sunday after the Scales-Ross Family Reunion, a small group of us went to Sandy Ridge Primitive Baptist Church.

It was Daddy’s church. Our father, Elder Joe Scales, is the pastor.

We were there to honor him.

After a Saturday filled with family, food, laughter and all the commotion that comes with a family reunion, Sunday morning was considerably quieter.

Sandy Ridge wasn’t new territory for my brother Reginald and me.

Years ago, we used to take our grandfather, Elder Levi Scales, there and to other Primitive Baptist churches throughout the Association. At the time, I doubt we thought much about it.

We were just taking Papa to church.

Sister Polly remembered.

She couldn’t remember my name, but when she saw Reginald and me, she knew who we were. We were those two young boys who used to bring Elder Lee to church in his wheelchair and help get him up into the pulpit.

Names have a way of getting away from us. Faces change. Hair turns gray—or turns loose altogether.

But Sister Polly remembered that.

A lot of years had passed since those two boys brought Elder Lee through the doors at Sandy Ridge.

Now we were back.

I sat with my sister Sandra. Reginald sat across the aisle with his wife Lisa, his longtime friend Willie and Willie’s wife, Kim. My nieces and the younger generation were in the pew in front of me.

There weren’t many people in the church that Sunday.

There used to be.

Like a lot of little country churches, Sandy Ridge has watched its congregation grow older. Some have passed on. Some aren’t able to come anymore.

Dad has talked about that. He says sometimes the Lord culls the group down.

Country people understand the word.

Cull.

There’s scripture behind the idea. Gideon and his army come to mind, although Dad wasn’t talking specifically about Gideon when he said it.
Sometimes the group gets smaller.

And sometimes numbers aren’t the best way to measure what’s going on.

That Sunday, the congregation was small.

But we had church.

Near the end of the service, a chair was placed out front. During the song, anyone who felt led to join the church could come forward and take that seat.

Nobody did.

But the chair was there.

Then Dad turned the service over to Deacon Bobby Moore to take up the collection.

As Deacon Moore moved through the congregation with the collection plate, he started talking.

Not preaching exactly.

More like testifying.

Deacon Moore said when he got up that morning, he felt led to Sandy Ridge. He said he didn’t chase crowds. He went where the Good Lord sent him.

That morning, it was Sandy Ridge.

And he was glad he came.

Then, almost in passing, he said something that got my attention.

Deacon Moore talked about growing in Christ and reaching a point where he realized the steering wheel didn’t fit his hands anymore.

His feet didn’t reach the pedals.

Jesus was driving.

He was the passenger.

Turns out, he had been the passenger all along.

I’ve spent a lot of years thinking I was driving.

Made plans. Changed plans. Took a few wrong turns. Probably drove past a few exits I should have taken.

All the while asking Jesus to ride along with me.

Maybe I had the seating arrangement wrong.

Deacon Moore came to Sandy Ridge that Sunday because that’s where he felt led to go.

I’m glad he did.

I’m still not sure where this road goes.

But I’m getting a little more comfortable with the passenger seat.

As best as I remember it.