-God and Me

It had started to rain again as Kim and I drove through the outskirts of Lincoln coming back from our trip to Hebron, rolling over endless rises and drops as the road snaked through the countryside.  We had stopped at our childhood home along the way and looked around a bit before heading on.  Doing so brought back many different kinds of memories, some good; some not so good. 

Eventually we pulled up to a small church called Trinity Chapel situated up on a hill off of a small country road, and surrounded by farmland.  It was the church that my family had dutifully attended for so many years so long ago.  Clark had been our pastor, and the memories of his sermons came flooding back as we slowed to a stop.

Clark had a very ‘70’s new age kind of approach to sermons.  Often times he would play that acoustic guitar to the hymns the congregation sang.  He never spoke of God’s wrath, but only God’s love.  He was a humble man, and a servant of the Lord, and it showed in how he was as a person day to day. 

I was an acolyte there at the church in those days, along with my friend Kevin Anderson.  Our jobs were to walk up the isle on cue from our handler, usually Clare’s wife Sharon, solemnly holding the lit acolyte candles.  These were long brass rods with long wicks that ran through them that could be slowly extended as they burnt down to keep the small flame lit, and a bell shaped cup on the underside to extinguish candle flames.  Our job was to light all of the candles in the candelabras at the front of the church as the intro organ music played and put them out when the sermon was over.

I liked being an acolyte.  It was a fun part of the service.  We both took it very seriously.  We got to wear long purple robes and sat in the front pew during the sermon.  At the end, the organ music would play again, and we would watch Clarke until he nodded slightly to us, signaling us to go.  We would go back up, light the wick again, then extinguish all of the candles like we were suppose to.  Then we would turn and walk to the back of the church and Clarke would follow us.

I don’t recall when my family stopped going to the little church, or why.  It was a few years after the crash, and the memories of it all are a blur to me and I don’t know what they were, only that I left any formal relationship with God there the last time I left.

That day, Kim and I got out of the rental car and walked across the wet gravel that crunched under our feet as we made our way toward the entrance of the church for the first time in almost thirty years.  It had stopped raining long enough for us to not get wet as we walked up to the door.  A man who had been diligently pulling weeds from a small patch of soil on the side of the church observed us as we approached and stood when we got near.  We greeted him and told him who we were and that we had come to see the old church again.  He said his name was Ken McQueen and it turned out he was now the pastor of the church.

            We went inside and I was again transported back to my youth.  Above the pulpit I saw the large wooden cross that had been placed on the wall so many years ago.  It was the memorial to my mom that my dad had commissioned to be made.  It was probably 15 feet high and pointed at the tips.  In it’s center carved symbols of the trinity were placed in circular wooden blocks.  It was truly beautiful.  I told the Ken about it.

            “That was put there for my mom,” I said.  “She was killed in a plane crash back in ’76.  She was very active in this church.”  The pastor looked at me for a second, and then replied knowingly.  Apparently he had heard of me.

            “Yes…” he said.  “Yes it is.”

            Kim and I stared at the old cross for a minute or two in silence, both contemplating the meaning of it as well as the meaning of us being there at that moment.  The hall was musty with age and the rain.  I remembered the smell of it from some distant corner of my brain. 

            We chatted with Ken for a short time and he showed us around the old church.  We really didn’t have a specific reason for coming, but we both wanted to, and I was glad we did.  It was good to see the place again. 

After awhile, we said goodbye to Ken and his wife and left the church walking back to our car.  It began to rain again as we pulled out onto the road and drove away.

I felt as we drove away like there was a part of us still there.  Maybe even part of my mom, left over from her funeral.  And I felt like maybe God was happy to see me again, even if only for a little while.