From Your Porch To Mine
By Amy El-Rai Brow
“Sometimes it isn’t where you are or what you’re doing—it’s who you’re doing it with.”
Last year, when Coffeeville Day rolled around, my family and I were still new to town. We’d moved here in May of 2024, just weeks after my mother-in-law suffered a stroke. With caregiving as my full-time role and not knowing a soul in Coffeeville, we felt like strangers on a deserted island—even though we were an extended family of six.
We went to the festival that year, hopeful. I remember arriving around midday, excited by the booths filled with purses, canned goods, and the smell of BBQ and lemonade in the air. But something was missing. We didn’t eat, didn’t buy anything, barely even spoke to each other. It felt hollow. I wondered: Had we lost our zeal for life? Had we grown old and forgotten how to enjoy? It wasn’t like the festivals of my childhood in Brookhaven, Mississippi. It was quiet—not in sound, but in spirit.
This year, I went alone. I had work later that day, and my family—still remembering last year—opted to stay home. I figured I’d make a quick loop through the festival and end up at work two hours early.
Wrong.
I arrived around noon, and though the festival looked smaller, it felt bigger in every way that mattered. I saw food trucks, face painting, and laughter spilling out from under tents. One tent belonged to the church I recently started attending. The pastor’s wife and others were painting faces, and their smiles were radiant. I walked up and was greeted like an old friend—hello’s, hugs, and warmth. The pastor and I shared a conversation that stirred memories of a recent encounter at work, where a gentleman shared his testimony and left me in tears of joy. That moment stayed with me. And now, with a purple flower painted on my cheek, I walked through the festival feeling something I hadn’t felt last year: connection.
There were handmade soaps, blinged-out glasses, ceramics (oh, that beautiful church I wanted!), cookware, cigars, sweets, and booths from TVIfiber and BANKFIRST. The aroma of food filled the air—BBQ, chicken, lemonade—and even the local police were grabbing lunch. Kids bounced in the bounce house, their laughter lifting my spirits. I spoke with a doctor from Coffeeville who’s launching a mobile clinic to serve our town. And I saw the Coffeeville Day Committee, smiling as they watched their hard work bloom into joy. Thank you.
I saw Mr. Napoleon, a regular at Dollar General, always full of jokes and kindness. Seeing him and so many others made me realize: this town isn’t just where we live—it’s who we live among.
Now, sitting on my porch, flipping through photos and sipping coffee, I see it clearly. Last year, we stayed 30 minutes and it felt like hours. This year, I stayed hours and it felt like minutes.
What changed?
The people.
Coffeeville isn’t defined by booths or bounce houses—it’s defined by faces, by kindness, by community. I see it every day: someone helping with a door, paying it forward at the register, bringing in buggies when we’re swamped. These small acts, woven together, create something extraordinary.
Thank you, Coffeeville, for being you. For loving your neighbors as yourself. (Leviticus 19:18, Mark 12:31, Luke 10:27, Romans 13:9, Galatians 5:14, James 2:8, and Matthew 22:39)
From my porch to yours, thank you for showing me what home really means.
