It was a little church. Literally overflowing and bulging at the seams when I married the preacher. You see, he’d been single for 20+ years since his first day as their pastor. Oh, many other potential wives came before me, hoping to snatch this handsome pastor. Some sat up front, a Bible placed in a prominent place to be easily seen from the pulpit. One girlfriend even danced with my now-husband during a Sunday service, as they demonstrated a sermon illustration. As fate would have it, these other women came and went. Good for me!
I came on the scene when we were both in our 50’s. As I wrote in a previous blog post, we met at a dance. It wasn’t long before I started attending his church. A small church with about 60-75 active members–most regulars with their own specific pews, though unmarked, known as “theirs.” Sure, they’d always make room for a visitor. Which I was about 14 years ago. I’d told him (my boyfriend–“the preacher”) that I would be coming to the service that Sunday, and I asked his advice on where to sit. He promptly replied, “With my mother.” So I did–second row from the back on the right hand side (just happened to be where I always sat with my grandmother). Hmmm.
As I walked towards the front door of this little brick church with the white doors, three or four men smoking out front greeted me warmly. Entering the building, it was the same (minus the smoking). Friendly, welcoming folks were everywhere. Including my future mother-in-law.
It wasn’t long before I was in the choir–going to the Wednesday evening practices and loving the fun, relaxed rehearsals. From the moment I got to this special place, it felt like home. As the months went by, I came to know all the people. They had the preacher and me over to dinner, and I was even invited to sing with another couple, joining my now-husband to make a quartet out of a former trio. We’re still singing together.
As it turned out, the choir director/organist’s husband was the liturgist (lay reader) one Sunday after the preacher and I had been dating a little over a year. Before he began the scripture reading, he said this–on the microphone–from the pulpit–first turning towards my preacher boyfriend: “If you don’t ask Jane to marry you, I’m leaving this church!” Everyone gasped and laughed. I’m sure I turned three shades of red. Now that I think about it, this man who laid down the gauntlet, so to speak, well, he and his family are BIG Duke fans, like I was and still am. I think that was the real reason he wanted the preacher to marry me.
Anyway, it wasn’t long until we were engaged! As I said earlier, people who hadn’t been to church in a while made sure they were at our wedding to see who in the world this bachelor preacher was finally marrying. Standing room only, even out the front door. One dear, longstanding female church member later told me, “You were the only one we really liked out of all the women he dated!”
It’s been 12 1/2 years since that wonderful wedding day. Through those years, we sang Christmas and Easter cantatas, sometimes with a small mostly African-American church in our little town. We had St. Patrick’s Day auctions–one time I wanted the homemade Italian Cream cake so badly that the sky was the limit–it was worth every penny; another year I got outbid on a Bob Timberlake Christmas painting by a couple who later gave it to me as a Christmas gift. We enjoyed numerous potluck lunches after church with crock pot meatballs and fresh green beans and homemade pies and cakes–everybody bringing their specialties. Me–corn pudding. As I always told people, “That’s the only thing I know how to make.” There were ice cream socials. And Saturday Night Alive, an attempt to offer a contemporary service option. In one of these services, my new preacher-husband even did a “Gangnam Style” routine by the Korean artist Psy–hilarious! Our little quartet sang in church from time to time. I was always nervous. We had a Fourth of July lunch and celebration at our house, plus some Christmas dinners. We taught Sunday School–an adult class where the class discussed and shared to gain insight and understanding. We decorated the church for Christmas, and many women added lovely new Chrismon ornaments to the tree. Greenery and red ribbons adorned the glass-stained window sills. Large wreaths went up. It was beautiful.
My husband was their preacher for 25 years until he retired four years ago. They decided to merge with another small church in our town. A few weeks ago, a yard sale took place at the old church. You see, the land had been sold. My husband preached in the merged church, also just a few weeks ago. He was filling in, since a new pastor wouldn’t start until another week. And, then, on my husband’s birthday this past week, on the very day of his birthday, big machinery leveled our former church. Making way for something else, something new to be built there. We were in another town celebrating his birthday when this happened. We got word (and pictures) of the tearing down via text and Facebook. It was sad. I guess it usually is sad at the end of an era.
I drove by it for the first time this afternoon. That’s why I wanted to write about this little church. I have so many wonderful, meaningful memories of what took place there. My husband has many, many more after being there 25 years. The two beautiful Crape Myrtle trees were standing in front of the wreckage. I’ve always loved those trees. Today, as I drove by, I could’ve sworn that their full, white blossoms that were so radiant just the other day were now turned inward. I wonder if they’re bowing, ever reverent for this dear, dear place. A place that I’ll always cherish and never forget.
Senior Moments 