Going to church with my great-grandmother was always an adventure. It was the one time I could eavesdrop on her conversations with the church ladies—and more importantly, it was when she would break out the Juicy Fruit gum. Her purse always smelled like Juicy Fruit, a scent that mingled with the faint fragrance of powder and the polished wood of the church pews.

I’d sit quietly, letting that first burst of fruity sweetness roll over my tongue, as the conversations unfurled around me like carefully stitched embroidery—delicate, intricate, and, at times, razor-sharp. Someone’s health was always noted (“Mxxxxxx doesn’t look well”), finances assessed (“Jxxx and Bxxxx are in hard times; they have to sell the orchards”), and inevitably, a story of someone’s family member finding trouble (“Bless his heart, he’s in jail again for public drunkenness”).

There was something sacred about the ritual of these exchanges, even as they strayed far from scripture. The rhythm of voices—soft murmurs peppered by knowing sighs and whispered exclamations—felt as much a part of the Sunday service as the sermon itself. The pews became confessionals, not for sins, but for concerns, speculations, and truths too sensitive for public discussion.

My great-grandmother, along with Mabel and Maude, had mastered the art of storytelling, their words layered with both judgment and genuine care. They weren’t mean-spirited, not really. They were keepers of the town’s oral history, each week gathering fragments from grocery aisles, waiting rooms, and front porches to piece together the grand tapestry of small-town life.

That “church lady” archetype—equal parts nurturing and what one might call, well, gossiping—was alive and well in that United Methodist Church. Warm and welcoming one moment, then stirring the pot the next, these women carried the weight of the town’s whispered truths. Their conversations weren’t just idle prattle; they were the gospel of the community, a way to track change, hardship, and resilience.

And so, every Sunday, I listened. I listened to the struggles, the victories. I listened to stories woven together in careful, deliberate detail. And long after the scent of Juicy Fruit had faded, those voices remained—etched into the memories of my childhood, reminding me that a town is more than its streets and houses. It is the stories its people tell and the way those stories linger, shaping the world in small but meaningful ways.