Coming Home to Dixie

“The people are too nice,” Jim said as we drove down the winding country road to the alumni dinner, his tone half-serious, half-incredulous. “I’m not used to people wanting to help.”

We had just left the annual Harvest Festival, a beloved town tradition that felt like stepping into a memory—one rich with the sounds of the town auction, laughter from the kids’ playing outside, and the warm familiarity of faces I hadn’t seen in over 30 years. His comment referred to the group of kind strangers who gathered around our car to help jump-start the battery after it unexpectedly died. Within minutes, several people—some familiar, some not—offered help, and just like that, the engine turned over and we were ready to go. No AAA call. No long wait. Just neighborly love.

It was a small moment, but it was also everything. This was the kind of place where people show up for each other, whether it’s hauling heavy equipment or charging a dead battery.

Earlier that week had been anything but calm. Roslynn had been home all week for Fall Break and had come down with strep throat, which left me juggling a demanding work schedule and playing nurse. Thankfully, the antibiotics kicked in by midweek, and by the time Saturday rolled around, she was back to her energetic self—talkative, funny, and full of excitement for the festival.

One of the most anticipated parts of the day was the auction under the big white tent. Locals had donated everything from hand-stitched quilts and woodwork to paintings and seasonal home decor. I had my eye on a few pieces and was thrilled to go home with a couple of my favorites. Honey, our sweet little poodle mix, came along with us and thoroughly enjoyed all the attention she got as I bid on items. She made fast friends with just about everyone, and I couldn’t help but smile as she soaked up the affection.

Another highlight of the day came in the most unexpected way—while standing in line at a food truck. Roslynn and I found ourselves behind none other than Survivor Season 46 contestant Hunter McKnight. A local celebrity and now a teacher at the high school, he was friendly and gracious as Roslynn and I (both huge Survivor fans) peppered him with questions. He answered them all kindly and even took pictures with us. Roslynn was starstruck, and I was equally impressed by his humility and openness.

As the day turned to dusk, we made our way to the alumni dinner. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it felt like a joyful high school reunion in all the best ways. Familiar faces, old stories, and laughter filled the room. We were especially happy to see our new friend from last week’s lunch there too, and we spent time catching up over bowls of homemade soup and cornbread.

The warmth of the community, the reconnection with old friends, the shared stories, and the surprise kindness of strangers all reminded me: this is why we came back. This is what we longed for.

Jim’s comment stuck with me. “I’m not used to people wanting to help.” That simple statement says so much about what we left behind—and everything we’ve found here.

—

This morning at church, it felt like the message was written just for us.

Brother Daniel continued his teaching in the book of Ruth, and this week’s focus brought fresh insight I didn’t even realize I needed. The story had reached the point where Ruth, after returning to Naomi’s hometown broken and with nothing to her name, finds herself in the fields of a wealthy and kind man named Boaz. He was a God-fearing man who offered help, protection, and provision—everything Ruth and Naomi desperately needed.

But the part that truly hit home was when Brother Daniel asked, “Can you imagine if Ruth had turned down Boaz’s help?” From our modern vantage point, it sounds absurd. Of course she accepted it. They were starving. They were vulnerable. But in our own lives, how often do we let pride creep in and say, “No thank you, I’ve got this,” even when we clearly don’t?

That question settled deep in my spirit. Just last night, Jim had said how hard it was to accept help. Sitting there this morning in the church pew, I thought in response to Brother Daniel’s question, “That was us.” Our pride gets in the way. We worry about being a burden. But in doing so, we rob ourselves of the chance to experience God’s grace and provision, and we remove ourselves from the community that was designed to hold us up.

Before we moved here, we had unknowingly distanced ourselves from community. We had gone through a season of hyper-independence, always managing, always pushing through—never asking for help. But in doing so, we missed out on the beauty of shared burdens and the grace that often comes through others. This season of our life, this town, this little country church—they’ve shown us what we didn’t even know we were missing.

We didn’t move here because we were seeking community. We were simply following what felt like a call—an unshakable pull toward a quieter life, a farm, a fresh start. But in saying yes to that unknown path, we were met by God’s provision through people—through neighbors who show up with their trucks, through strangers-turned-friends who invite us into their homes, through congregations who sing to celebrate our birthdays and lift us up in prayer.

Just like Ruth, we stepped out in faith and found ourselves surrounded by grace.

I can’t help but feel immense gratitude that we didn’t let our pride keep us from this life. That we said yes to something unfamiliar, and that in return we’ve been given a community that feels like family. We didn’t even know we were hungry for it—until we arrived and were fed in the most unexpected ways.