I revisited the church of my childhood this week.
Very little about it is the same. People have come and gone, though many familiar faces have
just matured.
The building has grown and been adjusted to meet present needs.
The main worship area, what we called the sanctuary, is now the children's worship area and it's decor reflects it's new audience. There's firetruck emerging through the front wall and a local community theme prevails throughout. Emergency lights and all kinds of signs adorn the ceilings and walls.
I remember painting those white pillars, taking extra care where the smooth white surface met the grooved wood of the ceiling as it stretched upwards to a point. It would seem that my meticulous care was all for nothing as wires hang
from hooks in the wood and tape or adhesives hold paraphernalia in place on the smooth painted surfaces.
But I remember the process, often all alone high on the scaffolding, just God and me in a space I had only looked up to from the comfort of my pew during those long sermons on Summer nights. I remember how I counted it a spiritual act of service to paint well, even though no one would come along and critique my work. I did it for God. Like the little drummer boy; it was what I could offer.
I also remember that someone came along and turned on the ceiling fans while I was up there. I just was able to hit the deck and avoid getting knocked off by the blades of the fans. That was not a shout of praise that came from my lips!
I remember counting the panes of stained glass on each side of the big wooden cross which was designed to have a white shadow shape behind it. We also counted the bricks in the walls that disguised the entry from each side in to the baptistry. The zigzag pattern of the brickwork sure made it hard to count from the back of the sanctuary. I had no way of holding my place in the count without giving myself away to whomever was preaching!
I also remember thinking that one day I'd get married in that sanctuary. Having attended many weddings there, and a few funerals, I tried to picture the day I'd walk up that aisle. I mentioned that to the Children's Minister once, the architect of the "new look" of the sanctuary.
He laughed and said, "Let's do it! It'll be fun and we haven't had a wedding at Station 12 yet!"
He's married so he was not proposing. There's no hurry. Who knows what theme will be in place if or when I need to reserve the room.
Very little about it is the same. People have come and gone, though many familiar faces have
just matured.The building has grown and been adjusted to meet present needs.
The main worship area, what we called the sanctuary, is now the children's worship area and it's decor reflects it's new audience. There's firetruck emerging through the front wall and a local community theme prevails throughout. Emergency lights and all kinds of signs adorn the ceilings and walls.
I remember painting those white pillars, taking extra care where the smooth white surface met the grooved wood of the ceiling as it stretched upwards to a point. It would seem that my meticulous care was all for nothing as wires hang
from hooks in the wood and tape or adhesives hold paraphernalia in place on the smooth painted surfaces.But I remember the process, often all alone high on the scaffolding, just God and me in a space I had only looked up to from the comfort of my pew during those long sermons on Summer nights. I remember how I counted it a spiritual act of service to paint well, even though no one would come along and critique my work. I did it for God. Like the little drummer boy; it was what I could offer.
I also remember that someone came along and turned on the ceiling fans while I was up there. I just was able to hit the deck and avoid getting knocked off by the blades of the fans. That was not a shout of praise that came from my lips!
I remember counting the panes of stained glass on each side of the big wooden cross which was designed to have a white shadow shape behind it. We also counted the bricks in the walls that disguised the entry from each side in to the baptistry. The zigzag pattern of the brickwork sure made it hard to count from the back of the sanctuary. I had no way of holding my place in the count without giving myself away to whomever was preaching!
I also remember thinking that one day I'd get married in that sanctuary. Having attended many weddings there, and a few funerals, I tried to picture the day I'd walk up that aisle. I mentioned that to the Children's Minister once, the architect of the "new look" of the sanctuary.
He laughed and said, "Let's do it! It'll be fun and we haven't had a wedding at Station 12 yet!"
He's married so he was not proposing. There's no hurry. Who knows what theme will be in place if or when I need to reserve the room.
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