This morning in lower Alabama, the air felt like a warm handshake—soft, humid, and familiar. I stepped out the door with that quiet Sunday excitement humming in my chest, the kind that only comes from knowing you’re headed somewhere that grounds you. The sun wasn’t fully awake yet, but it was already stretching its golden fingers across the tops of the pine trees, lighting up the sky with that peach-and-honey glow that only the South seems to know how to make. I took a deep breath, letting the scent of dew, red clay, and distant pasture land settle into my lungs, and thought, “Yep. This is home.”
As I walked to the car, my dress shoes clacked lightly on the driveway, a rhythm I’ve heard most Sundays of my life. In lower Alabama, going to church isn’t just an activity—it’s a ritual stitched into the fabric of the week. It’s fried-chicken-after-service Sundays, handshakes from people who’ve known you since you were knee-high, and hymns sung loud enough to rattle the old stained-glass windows. It’s where your granddaddy worshiped, where your mama taught Sunday school, and where you learned to sit still—well, mostly.
The ride itself was peaceful, the road quiet except for a few trucks heading out before the heat could settle in. Down here, even the asphalt seems to shine a little differently in the morning light. I rolled down the window, letting the warm breeze sweep through the car. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed like he was trying to shout a sermon of his own.
I passed familiar sights along the way: the peanut fields just starting to green up for the season, the weathered barn with its tin roof flashing like a mirror, and the little gas station where you can still get boiled peanuts hot enough to warm your hands. Every bit of it felt like part of the journey—not just to a building, but to a feeling.
When I pulled into the church lot, I saw folks already gathering on the steps. They stood there in their Sunday best—ladies in floral dresses, men in crisp shirts—even though we all knew the humidity would win before noon. Someone waved before I even shut the car door. That’s the thing about church in lower Alabama: you’re seen, you’re known, and you’re welcomed before your feet even hit the ground.
Inside, the familiar sound of the choir warming up drifted through the hallway. That mix of piano keys, gospel harmonies, and soft conversation wrapped around me like a well-worn quilt. I found my usual spot—third row on the right—and settled in as sunlight streamed through the windows, making the dust motes swirl like tiny dancers.
And even though it was church morning, I couldn’t help but grin to myself and whisper under my breath, “GO DAWGS!” Because faith is important—but so is football, especially when you’re from the South.
So there I was: in lower Alabama, headed to church, grateful for the day, the people, the place, and the chance to shout a little team spirit before the choir kicked in. And honestly? It felt just right.
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