It
was the church my mother grew up attending. It also served as her schoolhouse
then. Imagine today how some 'enlightened' heads would explode just thinking of that
possibility. No matter what the building held, it stood as a place where lives
changed, mostly for the good. Sure, some of the attempted change failed. Some of it
stalled there. When I look back I am grateful for that white-framed church
building but more grateful for those who walked through those doors, good and bad. I am also thankful for what I came to believe there in my formative years.
I
recall that building before it had additions built to the back. The water fountain
was a pipe at the right corner of the building. Off in the woods at that corner, outhouses once
stood. The building had no air conditioning then. In the summer, the windows along the auditorium
wall were opened. You could pull out a hand fan with a picture of pretty red flowers on one side supplied by Chastain-Pack
funeral home then you could go to work fanning away the heat. There was no baptistery either. When someone
decided to give their life to God, everyone got in their cars, drove a few
miles down the road stopping at a place called the "Baptizin’ Hole". There, in
the clear waters of Fightingtown Creek, the congregation stood on the banks
while the preacher immersed the believer into the almost always cold water. This was particularly moving since we believe that
act washes us clean from sin. Standing there watching this occur a person could see, feel and know the
swift water was doing it's job.
A
bell hung in a belfry on the roof of the church building. At ten o’clock each Sunday morning, someone
would pull the rope that dangled down from the rafters so that everybody within
ear shot in the community or just outside standing by their cars could hear it
and know it was time for church to start. A few songs and a prayer, an observance
of the death of Jesus Christ, another couple of songs then preaching. It sounds
so compact when condensed to a few sentences but I would be hard-pressed to
explain what it all truly meant and how in so many ways it shaped the rest of
my life.
Of
course, I could talk about how I spent some years there with distant family and friends
trying to keep from laughing during services for whatever reason as sometimes a time and place where you should behave sometimes leads to a test of strong and often silly wills. Then there
was that time in our teenage Bible class when the teacher read a verse from the
Bible which used the word "discord". He then asked what that word meant. I
forever became the Sunday School Class Clown when I held my hand in the air as
if I were holding a small wire and said, “It is dis-cord I have in my hand dat
I will plug into de-wall.” While my fellow classmates roared with laughter, I
don’t recall my mother being amused when she was informed of my smart mouth
later that morning.
We
were a close-knit group. After church we might toss around a baseball trying
hard not to hit someone’s car with an errant toss. We might play tag or chase
each other through the cemetery behind the building. On cold winter nights we
watched the bats dance around a street light at the far end of the parking lot.
We took camping trips, played softball in cow pastures on Sunday afternoons,
went bowling and roller skating. We got along with each other at times then at
other times we would get mad at one another. That went for the adults as much
as it did with us kids. After all, it was family, exactly like family.
I
learned to appreciate older people there. They always had interesting stories
to tell. Even then I was fascinated at their shared camaraderie which usually explained their
long-standing friendships. I can’t read music worth a flip but I can sight read
a song enough to sing bass because I stood beside a tall older man who could
read music, pitch a song then could sing bass. Hardly a time passes by when I have to stand in
public now to say something when I don’t think of the words of a wiry older man who
back then before I had to speak before the assembled crowd told me, “Just know everybody’s rooting for you.”
Once
a year, the church celebrated Homecoming and Decoration Day. It is a Southern
custom in many small towns. Family who have moved away return to their roots
and they, along with those who never left, decorate the graves of their loved
ones with new flowers. Our church celebrated this the third Sunday
of every
August. Our church size would swell by three or four times the normal size that
Sunday. We would have a dinner on the grounds afterward then a singing
mid-afternoon. The day also kicked off a week-long gospel meeting, guaranteed to
include at least one sermon that explained in fiery detail the fate that would
be dealt to one not willing to give his life to God.
I
haven’t been back there in years, physically at least. Some days now on a
Sunday, I am standing in church with my wife and daughter. Sometimes we sing newer songs that have haunting melodies painting wonderful word pictures with their lyrics. But when we begin to sing one of
those older hymns, well, I sometimes can't help but go back. Then I am just tall enough to pull the rope to
ring the bell signaling it's time to start church. I am old enough to know I should
behave better during services. I am just bent enough to try to make my
classmates laugh again. I am standing beside an older man singing “Anywhere
With Jesus” and "Sing To Me of Heaven". I am engaged enough to hear the words of the preacher on a sweltering August night but stubborn enough to hold on
to the bench in front of me so tight that my knuckles turn white. Then I realize how much I am loved by my God that I finally let go and
believe. I still believe.
Church playlist:
So,
a few years ago (you don’t think I would give her age away, do you?), her mom
and dad welcomed her into this world. Her journey started then. Right around
this time every year, we celebrate that day. We give her gifts. We wish her
many more happy birthdays.
