In which a possum, a foot spa, and a doctrinal dispute between Methodists and Baptists end with one soggy prophecy.
By Tom Seest
At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.
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🎤 Audio Overview
The day was supposed to be simple: songs, potato salad, community bonding, and a cooperative baptism between the First Baptist Church and the Grace United Methodist congregation. For once, the two groups had agreed to share the above-ground fiberglass baptismal pool installed behind the rec center—painted baby blue with a cross stenciled by the youth group using barbecue sauce and good intentions.
Everyone brought a dish. Trixie Jo Bartlett made her famous “Holy Spirit” jalapeño cheese dip (so hot it was considered an altar call on its own), Mabel Dean Ashcroft brought cut-glass jars of peach tea with hand-lettered Scripture verses taped to each one, and Shelley Wexler provided cucumber water that nobody drank but everyone respected. Boot Barnes grilled hot dogs wearing his embroidered apron that read “GRILLING FOR GOD,” and someone’s aunt brought a potato salad that no one touched but everyone complimented.
The kids ran wild, chasing bubbles and fireflies depending on time of day. Clovis Strickland had a pair of Bluetooth speakers zip-tied to a wagon, playing southern gospel instrumentals off his niece’s old Zune. The air smelled of smoked pork, Coppertone, and holy anticipation.
It was going smoothly until the Baptists brought up immersion. The Methodists countered with sprinkling. Then Pastor Peeler (Baptist) and Reverend Norvel Gentry (Methodist) exchanged polite but pointed barbs about “the full experience of grace” versus “the symbolic sufficiency of water in any quantity.”
It escalated into a brief hymn-off, with the Baptists singing Shall We Gather at the River and the Methodists replying with Come, Thou Fount, both groups trying to out-verse the other. A few Episcopalians who had wandered in with chicken casserole quietly hummed For All the Saints and tried not to take sides.
Boot Barnes set up lawn chairs in the shade and began taking bets in the form of deviled eggs. “Odds are even,” he announced, “that somebody’s getting dunked twice before the day’s done.”
Wade Langston, acting in his self-appointed role as Picnic Safety Officer, began pacing nervously around the pool with a clipboard and a whistle that nobody had asked him to bring.
The Incident: Clovis Strickland, who had come prepared to demonstrate a DIY baptismal heater made from a repurposed foot spa and 75 feet of garden hose, asked if he could “test the temperature.” No one stopped him.
He plugged in the contraption near the snack table. Shelley’s cucumber water acted as an accidental conduit, and before anyone knew it, a mild electrical current arced from the spa unit to the pool’s aluminum frame. Simultaneously, Buttons the choir dog began barking at a possum nesting beneath the rec center’s HVAC unit.
Startled by the barking and high-pitched Methodist soprano harmonies, the possum bolted—right into Clovis, who stumbled backward, arms flailing, and fell fully clothed into the pool.
The water, lightly electrified and spiritually ambiguous, caused Clovis to convulse, cry out, and—according to eyewitnesses—speak in tongues that vaguely resembled Morse code. Pastor Peeler and Reverend Gentry both rushed over, arguing mid-stride about whether it counted as a proper baptism.
“He went under!” shouted Peeler. “He wasn’t intending it!” countered Gentry. “Neither did the Ethiopian eunuch!” screamed Mabel Dean, from the peach tea station.
Dusty Teeter, the youth group’s newest member and the self-declared live streamer of “sequatchie.signs,” caught the entire thing on Facebook Live, including Clovis briefly emerging from the pool with one sandal missing and declaring, “I HAVE BEEN CLEANSED BY THE SQUIRREL OF THE LORD!” (He meant possum, but the spirit made him tongue-tied.)
Clovis was fished out using a pair of barbecue tongs and a shepherd’s crook. He emerged drenched, steaming slightly, and claiming to have seen “a vision of John the Baptist riding a Segway.”
Pastor Peeler declared it divine intervention. Reverend Gentry called it “an aquatic misunderstanding.”
Shelley Wexler attempted to dry Clovis using sound bowl vibrations, which caused the possum to faint and be cradled by Buttons in a rare interspecies truce. A small circle gathered around, unsure whether to cry or clap.
Meanwhile, Wade Langston cited at least four violations of town ordinance 9-C regarding unsupervised sacraments and improper extension cord usage near standing water.
Boot Barnes scribbled “Possum Baptism” on his betting board and declared himself the winner. He celebrated with a deviled egg and a root beer float.
By then, arguments had erupted over whether Clovis’s baptism invalidated the planned joint ceremony or had spiritually cleared the pool for further use. A subcommittee formed on the spot—comprised of two deacons, one disgruntled choir mother, and a man named Reggie no one recognized—who voted to move the remaining baptisms to the Sequatchie Creek, citing “biblical ambiance and lower voltage risk.”
By sundown, Clovis had changed into Boot Barnes’s emergency overalls. The pool was drained, the foot spa was blessed and banned, and a new rule was passed: no homemade baptismal modifications without a two-thirds congregational vote.
Clovis insists he now receives prophetic dreams “every second Tuesday” and has started a Substack newsletter called The Soaked Scrolls, where he publishes weekly devotionals dictated by what he calls “Spirit-charged water wisdom.” His second post, titled ‘Why the Possum Chose Me’, includes a hand-drawn map of the rec center’s HVAC ductwork and a recipe for cucumber crumble.
Pastor Peeler and Reverend Gentry agreed to alternate Sundays using the pool—with a squirt bottle provided for ecumenical compromise. Clovis was invited to give a testimony at both churches, during which he spoke for 47 minutes, wept twice, and accidentally healed a wart on Mabel Dean’s foot.
Whether it’s sprinkling, dunking, or falling in sideways holding a live wire and a possum, grace finds its way. Especially in Sequatchie Crossing. And sometimes the Spirit speaks in bubbles, Morse code, or minor electrical shocks. You just have to be listening.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real possums, ecumenical disputes, or spirit-led foot spas is purely coincidental. But, in Sequatchie Crossing, entirely plausible. But if your great-aunt claims she knew what happened at the 1973 Square Dance, we suggest offering her cobbler and recording everything she says. Just in case. Any resemblance to real people, living or just stubborn, is purely accidental—but also maybe a little flattering. Sequatchie Crossing exists only in the minds of those brave enough to imagine a town where zoning laws, casseroles, and conspiracy cassettes collide in glorious disarray.
At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.
Please share this post with your friends, family, or business associates who may want hear about the happenings in Sequatchie Crossing.
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