The other day I drove up to Lynchburg to visit a church member in the hospital. As I made my way up Highway 29, I saw the exit sign for the small community of Motley. The sight of that name on the sign stirred up some old memories.
ear, the first Saturday of October, my high school band from the mountains of eastern Kentucky always traveled to Bristol, Virginia for a big marching band competition. So, other than those annual treks to one of the westernmost points of the Old Dominion, I had minimal personal exposure to the Commonwealth. Again, I was happy to be able to preach in Virginia. (Actually, I was happy to be able to preach anywhere!) At that point, I had only preached in my home church back in Kentucky as well as in a handful of churches in North Carolina that were relatively close to the seminary. (By the way, those Tar Heel churches that suffered under my early preaching were so delighted to see me go out of state for a change, rather than subjecting them to more pain.)
On the Sunday I was to preach at Motley, I left home early that morning. Sandy did not go with me. We had found it to be quite challenging for her to join me on these longer preaching expeditions with a 3-year-old in tow. So, I made this particular trip on my own.
Driving up Highway 86 and crossing the state line into Virginia, I very soon came upon this city called Danville. I made a wrong turn at one point, however, and rather than connecting with Business 29, I wound up on Main Street
and drove the length of it. I went past “church row” downtown and past all the old historic Victorian homes. I crossed the river, past the old textile mill with the big “Home of Dan River Fabrics” sign. As I made my may through the slumbering city early on that quiet Sunday morning, a feeling of peacefulness came across me, and I thought, “Danville, Virginia…Hmm, this seems like a nice city…a nice place to live.”
Ultimately, at the end of North Main, I wound up on Highway 29 and made my way northward to Motley, to a small country church. The only thing I remember about that Sunday was the grand introduction I received. A very sincere but inarticulate c
hairman of deacons was charged with conducting the service that day. When he stood to introduce me, I was surprised to see him reach into his suit coat pocket to pull out a rolled up copy of my personal resume that the seminary had mailed to him. Unbelievably, he proceeded to read haltingly through the entire document, stumbling over words as he went. In the process, he shared with the church family vast amounts of critical and pertinent data about me, such as my place and date of birth, my brief stint working as a busboy for a Holiday Inn restaurant back in the summer of ’73, and my first job out of college as a bank teller/ loan collector! I’m sure all of this was absolutely riveting to everyone else in attendance, but for me it was about as fun as a botched root canal job. By the time he finished and I finally got up to preach, I was sweating bullets and the small crowd was so glazed over that I doubt they even heard a word I said.
After the worship service ended, I left Motley and made my way back through Danville, stopping somewhere along Piney Forest Road to get a Coca-Cola. Again, I thought, “Hmm, this seems like a nice place.” Then I got back in my ’78 Chevy Impala—the one with a classic baby blue exterior and black vinyl seats—and proceeded back home to North Carolina.
It’s interesting what happened next. I was graduating from seminary that December, which was just a few weeks away. So, at that time, I had resumes all over the place, trying to find a church that would be willing to take a chance on
me. An older pastor friend of mine that lived in Newport News had sent my resume to a number of places. The only one of those places that ever even acknowledged receiving my resume was some entity called the Pittsylvania Baptist Association in (whoa!) Danville, Virginia! Rev. Donald Harlan, then-PBA Director of Missions, wrote me a nice typewritten letter on PBA letterhead just a few weeks after my trip to Motley. He stated that there were not many pastorless churches in the association at that time, so he couldn’t really offer me much encouragement about possible ministry opportunities. After I read his letter, I immediately turned to Sandy and said, “Well, there’s one place in the world now where we know we’re NOT going…and that’s Danville, Virginia.”
It’s funny how God works, though. Not very long after that, I get a call from the chairman of the pastor search committee of a church named Melville Avenue Baptist Church in—“Where
did he say?”—Danville, Virginia! They had received my resume--not from Don Harlan, but from another source. (No, not the guy in Motley with the rolled up copy! Actually, they got it from the seminary.) Soon thereafter, Sandy and I came to Danville and met with the search committee. They heard me preach. One thing led to another. And by Easter Sunday 1985, I was the pastor of a church in—of all places—that nice city I had first driven through just five months earlier when I was on my way to a preaching assignment up in good ole Motley.
This week’s trip to the hospital in Lynchburg for some reason prompted me to recall that long ago moment in time. And it also reminded me of a good God who, as part of His divine plan, first brought Sandy and me to Danville in 1985 and then back again in 2006. And yes, after more than 23 years, I can say that first impressions are true. The Danville area IS a nice place to live. It was back then and it still is today.
Pastor Danny
ear, the first Saturday of October, my high school band from the mountains of eastern Kentucky always traveled to Bristol, Virginia for a big marching band competition. So, other than those annual treks to one of the westernmost points of the Old Dominion, I had minimal personal exposure to the Commonwealth. Again, I was happy to be able to preach in Virginia. (Actually, I was happy to be able to preach anywhere!) At that point, I had only preached in my home church back in Kentucky as well as in a handful of churches in North Carolina that were relatively close to the seminary. (By the way, those Tar Heel churches that suffered under my early preaching were so delighted to see me go out of state for a change, rather than subjecting them to more pain.)On the Sunday I was to preach at Motley, I left home early that morning. Sandy did not go with me. We had found it to be quite challenging for her to join me on these longer preaching expeditions with a 3-year-old in tow. So, I made this particular trip on my own.
Driving up Highway 86 and crossing the state line into Virginia, I very soon came upon this city called Danville. I made a wrong turn at one point, however, and rather than connecting with Business 29, I wound up on Main Street
and drove the length of it. I went past “church row” downtown and past all the old historic Victorian homes. I crossed the river, past the old textile mill with the big “Home of Dan River Fabrics” sign. As I made my may through the slumbering city early on that quiet Sunday morning, a feeling of peacefulness came across me, and I thought, “Danville, Virginia…Hmm, this seems like a nice city…a nice place to live.”Ultimately, at the end of North Main, I wound up on Highway 29 and made my way northward to Motley, to a small country church. The only thing I remember about that Sunday was the grand introduction I received. A very sincere but inarticulate c
hairman of deacons was charged with conducting the service that day. When he stood to introduce me, I was surprised to see him reach into his suit coat pocket to pull out a rolled up copy of my personal resume that the seminary had mailed to him. Unbelievably, he proceeded to read haltingly through the entire document, stumbling over words as he went. In the process, he shared with the church family vast amounts of critical and pertinent data about me, such as my place and date of birth, my brief stint working as a busboy for a Holiday Inn restaurant back in the summer of ’73, and my first job out of college as a bank teller/ loan collector! I’m sure all of this was absolutely riveting to everyone else in attendance, but for me it was about as fun as a botched root canal job. By the time he finished and I finally got up to preach, I was sweating bullets and the small crowd was so glazed over that I doubt they even heard a word I said.
After the worship service ended, I left Motley and made my way back through Danville, stopping somewhere along Piney Forest Road to get a Coca-Cola. Again, I thought, “Hmm, this seems like a nice place.” Then I got back in my ’78 Chevy Impala—the one with a classic baby blue exterior and black vinyl seats—and proceeded back home to North Carolina.It’s interesting what happened next. I was graduating from seminary that December, which was just a few weeks away. So, at that time, I had resumes all over the place, trying to find a church that would be willing to take a chance on
me. An older pastor friend of mine that lived in Newport News had sent my resume to a number of places. The only one of those places that ever even acknowledged receiving my resume was some entity called the Pittsylvania Baptist Association in (whoa!) Danville, Virginia! Rev. Donald Harlan, then-PBA Director of Missions, wrote me a nice typewritten letter on PBA letterhead just a few weeks after my trip to Motley. He stated that there were not many pastorless churches in the association at that time, so he couldn’t really offer me much encouragement about possible ministry opportunities. After I read his letter, I immediately turned to Sandy and said, “Well, there’s one place in the world now where we know we’re NOT going…and that’s Danville, Virginia.”It’s funny how God works, though. Not very long after that, I get a call from the chairman of the pastor search committee of a church named Melville Avenue Baptist Church in—“Where
did he say?”—Danville, Virginia! They had received my resume--not from Don Harlan, but from another source. (No, not the guy in Motley with the rolled up copy! Actually, they got it from the seminary.) Soon thereafter, Sandy and I came to Danville and met with the search committee. They heard me preach. One thing led to another. And by Easter Sunday 1985, I was the pastor of a church in—of all places—that nice city I had first driven through just five months earlier when I was on my way to a preaching assignment up in good ole Motley.
This week’s trip to the hospital in Lynchburg for some reason prompted me to recall that long ago moment in time. And it also reminded me of a good God who, as part of His divine plan, first brought Sandy and me to Danville in 1985 and then back again in 2006. And yes, after more than 23 years, I can say that first impressions are true. The Danville area IS a nice place to live. It was back then and it still is today.Pastor Danny
