Sunday in the south ~ the invitation (Part 1 of 2)

Where It All BEGAN

There’s something sacred about a Sunday in the South.

When I think of Sundays at home, I don’t just remember them — I feel them. The smells, the sounds, the comfort… all wrapped in something warm, safe, and familiar. Home smelled like Mama’s pot roast slow cooking, yeast rolls rising in a warm kitchen, and the faint tangy scent of Pine-Sol — because Mama was always cleaning something. The dryer was softly tumbling a fresh load of laundry. The windows were open, the wind whispering through the pines, and you could always hear the gentle call of a mourning dove. There was usually an album on, Alabama mostly. I can hear Dixieland Delight and immediately be transported back to the whole experience.

Breadcrumbs and Baby Steps

Years later, I started creating Sunday memories for my own kids. Theirs were made of pancakes and smoked sausage, a floor full of action figures and LEGO sets, and the crisp snap of freshly ironed church clothes. The house was filled with laughter, squeals, and the background hum of cartoons.

But Sundays were for church — where I tried to lift my little ones up toward a Jesus I didn’t believe was within my grasp... I was sure I was too far gone.

I thought I was bringing my boys to Jesus. But it turns out, He had His arms open wide for all of us — same grace, same cross, same welcome.

I didn’t realize it then, but in all my striving to get my children to Jesus… the invitation had always been for me, too.

This is the story of where that invitation began — and how, on a quiet Wednesday night, God called my name and changed everything.

Saved, sealed, and sipping coffee like I belong at the table ~ because I do. He called my name, and that was enough for me.

Denominations, p b & j, and flip flops

Growing up, I attended mostly Baptist and Methodist churches. I hadn’t spent much time in Pentecostal ones, although Miss Susie — one of my babysitters — took me to her Holiness church when I was little.

One of my earliest memories, around age three, was struggling with kidney infections and urinary issues. Mama — a nurse — would often have to take me to the ER to have my urethra dilated so I could urinate. It was painful, scary, and always ended with a visit to the hospital or doctor’s office ~ except when I was with Miss Susie. She would pray over me in tongues. I didn’t understand it, but I knew there was power in it — because I always felt instant relief.

Looking back now, I realize it was one of the first breadcrumbs God laid out for me — soft and small, but unforgettable.

Now don’t get me wrong — I’m not trying to ruffle any denominational feathers. I’ve got love and admiration for the Baptist and Methodist churches. I spent a majority of my church time in them both, and they absolutely have servant hearts. They’re all about hospitality, making sure you feel welcome, and the kind of place where folks show up when you’re in need — spiritually, physically, or financially.

And they know the Word ~ better than some folks know their own kids.

My ex-husband was Baptist, and he taught me more about the Bible than I’d ever learned in church. He showed me the importance of speaking scripture over your problems and, most importantly, taught me how to be a prayer warrior.

Our honeymoon night might not have seemed typical to most — we sat on the couch well past midnight with our Bibles, sharing our favorite verses. I was bouncing questions off him, and he was bouncing back revelation. We were intimate with Jesus. We read and claimed promises over our lives — his, mine, and the boys he’d already begun to love like his own.

His time in my life was such a God-send. He helped lay that foundation — and that’s what discipleship is all about. Salvation gets you on the bike. But honey, you still gotta learn how to ride it.

I’m grateful to say that although we divorced after 13 years of marriage, we’re still very good friends and co-parent amazingly well. Not too many folks can say that with a straight face and not be fibbin’.

But the Pentecostal church? It flipped the script on everything I thought I knew about worship — and thank God it did. I’m forever grateful, because in my deepest, darkest hours — when my prayers felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling, when I had no more words or tears — worship lifted me. It broke chains, cleansed bloodlines, opened the heavens, and carried me into the spirit, where things always shifted.

I once heard a funny explanation at a ladies’ luncheon with Babbie Mason that I’ll never forget. She explained that she was raised Pentecostal and her husband was Baptist — which I totally related to — and that sometimes those two styles clashed. But she saw it like this: Baptists are the protein — they know the Word, and it's necessary nourishment. Pentecostals? They’re the jelly — sweet, rich in worship, and full of flavor. They bring that Spirit-filled joy that saturates the soul.

Some might roll their eyes and call it hype. But that kind of worship? That’s not hype — that’s a heart cry. That’s marching on holy ground. It’s not just stirring emotion — it’s stirring up hell. Pentecostals know how to sound the war drums — and when they do, every demon in earshot gets the kind of whoopin’ only Heaven can deliver… kinda like when your mama pops you with her flip-flop in the Dollar General.

Both of these denominations bring something vital — and together, they make a full spiritual sandwich.

Peanut butter by itself’ll choke you, and jelly alone is Wilford Brimley’s “diabeetus” in a dress. But slap ’em together? That’s revival on Sunbeam — fresh, sticky, and exactly what your soul was hungry for.

When your theology’s a mix of Baptist basics and Pentecostal fire… but your breakfast is all grace and griddle.

Or maybe it’s more like Sunday pancakes — so good your tongue rolls up like a winder’ shade. Got your fork in one hand… a folding church fan with Jesus petting a lamb in the other.

And baby, that’s church — whether you shout, sway, whisper, or weep. If Jesus is at the center, you’re gettin’ fed.

So truthfully, I don’t care what denomination you claim. If it’s scripturally sound and points you to Jesus as the truth, the way, and the life — the only way to the Father — then I say grow where you’re planted.

And I was planted at Carpenter Road Church of God in the year 2000.

I’ve always loved Romans 8:28: “And we know that all things work together for the good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.”

All things.

Not just the churchy things. Not just the easy things.

That included my second pregnancy out of wedlock in 2000.

Now, this is still the South — and even though we’d come a long way from sending girls “off,” folks weren’t exactly lining up to throw you a baby shower on the church porch either. People might not have said much, but the silence was loud. Still, Jesus wasn’t shocked. He could handle it. He was ready to walk me through it — and redeem every bit of it.

Although I’d grown up in church, I didn’t know Jesus. I knew of Him — kinda like I know of Donald Trump. I can tell you all kinds of things about facts of his life, but I’ve never been to his house, he’s never called my phone to chat, and if you asked him who I was, he wouldn’t have a clue.

So that second pregnancy kickstarted my path to really knowing Jesus. At the time, my unborn son’s aunt, Jeannine, was a member at Carpenter Road. She strongly suggested I visit with her. And honestly, I had beaten myself up so much by that point for not making wise decisions, I was ready to try most any new direction… so I went. Not always voluntarily — sometimes it was like dragging a cat to a bath — but I went. And I’m so grateful she loved me enough to hold me accountable. That changed my life — and I’m forever thankful to her for those loving nudges.

I started going every time the doors opened. But Wednesdays became especially special. Sunday mornings are full. Sunday nights, a little quieter. But Wednesdays? That feels like no one is checking boxes. Just hungry people, walking in after a long day of work or school, expecting Jesus to pour something out on them. And He doesn’t disappoint. He meets them right there.

Two of the most important moments of my life happened on Wednesday nights, both in August.

Once I started attending regularly, I bought myself a study Bible. I was trying to get to know Jesus — not for me, at first, but to teach my sons. I truly believed I was past saving, but I wanted them to have every opportunity God had for them. Funny how you’ll do for your kids what you won’t do for yourself. In that way, my boys helped save me.

Another breadcrumb.

THE DETOUR

We stayed at Carpenter Road for about a year. But then the pastor left — a man I had looked to as a spiritual father. So, since my husband had always been a die-hard Southern Baptist, we decided to move our membership to the big First Baptist church in town.

Let me tell you — you thought getting me into a Pentecostal church was like dragging a cat to a bath? Getting me into THE First Baptist Church? That was a whole different battle. It was uptown… and I was a downtown girl.

All I knew about that place was that it was where some of the kids from high school went on Sunday to get holy after they’d partied with me Friday and Saturday night — then had the nerve to flip their noses at me on Monday, like those weekends were my party of one and they were nowhere around. That’s where my strong disdain for hypocrisy began.

So getting me through those big white double doors was akin to clipping Otis’s nails… takes prayer, fasting, and a muzzle. And oh, how I needed the muzzle to go in there.

Honestly, though, I came in with all kinds of baggage — and church hurt was packed right on top. But to be fair, once I got past my pride and my past, I found real kindness there — folks who met me with open arms and blessings I never saw coming.

COMING HOME

These days, I attend the Baptist church across the street from Carpenter Road with Jeff ~ my husband, my holy sandpaper, and the reason I can’t have calves in the house or dress up chickens in crocheted sweaters.

Every time I look across at that old parking lot, the memories come flooding back. That season of worship inside those walls? It holds some of the best days of my life.

Then one day, I saw on Facebook that my old pastor was coming back for a homecoming celebration. I had to go. Ronnie Luke had played such a major role in leading me to Jesus, and I couldn’t wait for Jeff to meet the man who had been such a big part of my story.

The moment we stepped into the church, I felt like I was home. It was like walking into a house you used to live in — new people live there now, things are updated, but you still recognize the bones. There’s something holy about ground that’s been soaked in worship. I could feel it before a word was spoken or a song was sung.

I cried through worship — something about those familiar walls and Spirit-soaked floors cracked me wide open. It felt like seeing your oldest, bestest friend and not having a single word to say because it feels better to just hug 'em and let the tears do the talking.

When god called my name

Back to my story of how I finally came to know Jesus... I know this is getting long, and if you’re still hanging in there with me — I really do thank you. But Rome wasn’t built in a day… and neither was I.

Then came a Wednesday night I’ll never forget. It was Bible study night. Pastor Luke was teaching, and I was probably half-listening, half-doodling — working on a grocery list. I don’t even remember what he was teaching exactly, but I’m sure it had something to do with listening and hearing (ironically enough). And out of nowhere, a thought popped into my head: I wonder what it would sound like if God called my name.

I barely had time to blink before Pastor Luke stopped mid-sentence and said, “Tina Reynolds, come up here.”

I was stunned. Half of me had no clue what was happening. The other half knew exactly what it was.

As I walked toward the front, tears welled up in my eyes. I asked him, “Why did you call my name?”

He looked at me, steady and sure, and said, “Because God told me to, baby girl.”

I’ll never, ever get over that. It still wrecks me.

All the tiny details that lined up to get me to that moment — me going to that church, having the question in my thoughts, pastor being obedient and stopping *right then* and saying EXACTLY what I was thinking — it was undeniable. God heard my voice — even when it was just a whisper in my head — and He wanted me to know He heard it. And the way Pastor Luke said "baby girl"? That pierced me. I've always longed to be a daddy’s girl, and God knew that.  I needed every tiny detail of it.

BUT GOD…

From that point on, it was like a beautiful dance — me asking or thinking something, and God so kindly responding. Over and over again, He kept showing me that He is who He says He is.

Some folks don’t like that story. They say God shouldn’t have to jump through hoops to earn my faith. And they’re right — He didn’t have to. He chose to. Because He knew ole Doubting Thomastina needed to stick her fingers straight through the wound from Calvary to really believe. After so many lies and betrayals, I didn’t trust much.

BUT GOD…

He kept pursuing me. Patiently. Personally. Powerfully. That kind of love only comes from a Father like God. He’s a good, good Daddy.

There’s a part two to this story I’ll share with you next Sunday. But for now, I’ll let you marinate on this part of Father God’s invitation to me. I just wanted you to know how it really began… Not with a choir. Not with a crusade. Not even an altar call.

Just me and Jesus… and Campbell’s soup. Because on the night of August 27, 2003, everything changed.

To be continued... Part 2 ~ next Sunday.