Saints, Sinners, and Sweet Tea

I grew up knowing there are two kinds of family reunions:

The kind where you’re expected to repent for sins you haven’t committed yet.

And the kind where someone ends up bleeding, or drunk, or both—and the barbecue grill gets lit with enough gasoline to launch a small rocket.

I attended both.

On one side were the Wilkes—my mother’s in-laws.

Led by Granddaddy Wilkes, a retired Baptist preacher who still spoke like he had a congregation waiting for an altar call. His sermons had no pulpit, just a folding chair and a captive audience of relatives, who tried not to make eye contact.

His wife, Grandma Wilkes, could stir sweet tea while reciting scripture and silently condemning your soul.

They were pious, proud, and perpetually disappointed in my mother and me.

“She hung laundry on the Sabbath,” Grandma would whisper, like she was revealing a felony.

“And she paid for dancing lessons,” Granddaddy would add, shaking his head. “Remember Bathsheba.”

Bathsheba became a cautionary tale in my childhood.

No one ever explained what she did wrong—only that she danced and things went downhill from there.

I wasn’t sure if she was biblical or just a distant cousin with a reputation, but I knew she was the reason I had to lie about jazz class.

The Wilkes reunions were held in church fellowship halls, where the air smelled like starch and sanctimony.

The food was bland, the conversation was tense, and the only dancing allowed was spiritual—like when Aunt Ruth got the Holy Ghost and knocked over the deviled eggs.

I spent most of those afternoons hiding behind the lemonade table, sipping judgment-free sugar water and wondering if Bathsheba ever considered tap.

Then there were the Carters—my mother’s side.

Their reunions were held in public parks, where the grills smoked, the music blasted, and someone always brought a parole officer as a plus-one.

It was said the Carters couldn’t hold a reunion unless the parole board met first. That wasn’t a joke—it was logistics.

Uncle Ray once arrived wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, an ankle monitor, and carrying a casserole labeled “Not Poison.”

Cousin Tasha brought her new boyfriend, who introduced himself as “currently between convictions.”

Aunt Shirley hugged me like I’d just won a scholarship.

“You still dancing, baby?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t let those Wilkes folks shame you. Keep it up and you will have great legs.”

I wondered if Bathsheba had great legs.

The Carters didn’t care about sermons. They cared about stories.

They asked about my life, my dreams, my heartbreaks.

They listened like it mattered.

They didn’t judge—they laughed, they hugged, they fed you until you forgot why you were nervous.

Uncle Bo once pulled me aside and said, “You should write a book someday. Call it Raised by Saints and Sinners. I’d buy that.”

And I think I will.

Because here’s the truth: I used to dread those reunions.

One side made me feel like a sinner, the other made me feel like a sitcom character.

But now I see it. Both sides loved me in their own way.

The Wilkes taught me how to dodge judgment with grace and a well-timed bathroom break.

The Carters taught me how to survive chaos with humor and a full plate of ribs.

And Momma? She taught me that hanging laundry on a Sunday isn’t a sin—it’s just efficient.

If I ever do write that book, I’ll dedicate it to both families.

To the Wilkes: for keeping me humble.

To the Carters: for keeping me laughing.

And to Bathsheba—wherever she is—I hope she danced.