by Donna Poole
Why didn’t I bring a sweater? This place is freezing. And too crowded. I hate sitting in the second row, but we didn’t have a choice.
Mia looked around at the unfamiliar faces and swallowed past the lump in her throat. The only person she knew was her husband, Daryl. Her daughters were worshipping with the teens.
Get a grip. You should be used to first visits in new churches by now. This constant moving doesn’t seem to bother Daryl or the kids; why can’t you cope better?
How many times had they moved in their twenty-year marriage? This had to be at least the tenth move, and she was tired of it. She shivered, and Daryl slipped an arm around her shoulders and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. True, she’d known when she’d married him that his job as a construction manager would require frequent moving, but back then, to a girl who’d spent all her life living on a narrow dirt road, a life of travel sounded like an adventure movie. Now, after living like a nomad for two decades, it seemed more like a horror film.
Mia couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good friend. Had it been those nine months they’d spent in Fresno, California, or the eighteen months they’d been Brookhaven, N.Y? Now they were in Henderson, Nevada.
All she knew for sure was that she’d stopped getting involved with people a long time ago… seven years to be exact. It just wasn’t worth it. Why bother? The goodbyes would come all too soon. Daryl missed having guests over; she didn’t, and she flatly refused to invite anyone.
“Loosen up, church!” the worship team leader shouted. “Get ready! It’s time to praise the Lord!”
With drums, green flashing lights, and lots of enthusiasm the Sunday morning service started, but Mia sat quietly. She didn’t feel like praising the Lord. The loud music was giving her a pounding headache. She was suddenly very, very homesick.
In her thoughts she left this city church and slipped 30 years back in time and 1,950 miles northeast to the church of her childhood. She traveled down a country road where the August corn grew so tall you were almost to the church before you could see it. Instead of the hundreds of people here in Henderson, there were perhaps 40 people in that little country church. Just a handful of country people, but the power and love that came from their prayers and actions had changed many lives, including her own.
Thirty years ago, Mia had been ten. On a late August day like today, the church windows would have been open. Instead of drums she’d have been hearing the hum of cicadas. Instead of seeing flashing green lights she would have been seeing fields of corn growing tall. And there would have been no worship team, just fat green hymnals with songs inside like “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Amazing Grace,” “It is Well with My Soul,” “Grace Greater Than Our Sin.” And “Yesterday, Today, Forever.” The congregation would have been singing together. Little girl Mia had always imagined angels sitting cross-legged on the roof, listening to the music, and smiling.
Sometimes a man everyone called Grandpa Smith would strum his old guitar and sing a special.
Mia sighed. Friends made in that church had sometimes lasted a lifetime. If only she could find a church like that. She almost laughed. She wasn’t likely to find a white frame church on the corner of two dirt roads in this city of 317,610 people.
Everything now was so different from her childhood, but that’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
As the praise music continued to get louder around her, Mia was still ten years old, and back in the farmhouse with Mom and Dad. Mom was braiding her hair, getting her ready for Sunday school.
“I hope I’m not the only kid in my Sunday school class again, Mom. When I grow up, I’m going to live in a big city and go to a big church with lots and lots of people! What do you think of that?”
Her mom chuckled. “I think that’s just fine, Mia. Things change. You just remember to keep loving Jesus, and you remember he never changes. He’ll always be there for you.”
“I can’t wait for everything to change!” Mia said. But then, with only one braid finished, Mia jumped up from the stool and threw her arms around her mother. “But don’t you ever change, Mom, promise! You’ll always be here for me, right?”
“Sit down, honey, and let me finish braiding your hair. I’ll be here for you as long as I can, and your dad will be too.”
Mom and Dad, and most of the people she’d known in that little country church were in heaven now. Mia wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
Daryl whispered, “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “I’m just so tired of everything changing.”
“I’m sorry.” He offered his hand. She didn’t take it.
The church auditorium suddenly quieted. “We’re starting something new today,” the worship team leader said. “We’re going to learn an old hymn every week, the kind our grandparents used to sing. There’s good doctrine in those hymns.”
A few loud “amens” came from people with silver hair sprinkled here and there in the roomful of mostly younger people.
“I hear you, old church!” the worship leader hollered, and people laughed, even the ones with silver hair. “Now I want to introduce my grandpa. He’s going to teach the hymn a week. I guess you don’t want the drums for back up, huh Grandpa Peters?”
A man with silver hair smiled up at the younger man. “No thanks. Me and my guitar will do just fine. I’d like to have the piano play the second time through though.” He nodded at the girl at the keyboard.
Mia’s mouth dropped open. It had been a long time since she’d heard someone pronounce “guitar” and “piano” that way, gee-tar and pie-ano. She hadn’t heard it since she’d left the dirt roads behind. That’s how some of the old people had said those words. Where was this man from? Grandpa Peters opened a fat, green hymnal, propped it on a music rack in front of him and started singing.
How can one person sound so much like another one? If I close my eyes, that’s Grandpa Smith sitting up there! And those words, Oh, dear Lord, it’s just what I needed!
“Yesterday, today, forever, Jesus is the same,
All may change, but Jesus never—glory to His name!
Glory to His name! Glory to His name!
All may change, but Jesus never—glory to His name!”
It was quiet for a moment when he finished singing, and then the congregation gave him a standing ovation. He chuckled, motioned for them to sit, and the worship leader helped him to his own seat in the row ahead of Mia and Daryl.
When the service ended, Grandpa Peters stopped them before they could leave. “Welcome! What did you think of the preaching?”
Daryl hesitated, glanced at Mia, and said, “The sermon was pretty good, I guess.”
“We aren’t big fans of praise and worship music,” Mia confessed.
“Me either!” Grandpa Peters grinned. “I turn off my hearing aids. Hate the stuff.”
“Why do you come to church here then?” Mia asked.
Grandpa Peters laughed. “Don’t have much choice. I live with my son, and this is where he goes to church. And the sermons here are pretty good, I guess.” He grinned at Daryl. “Besides, I only live here three months a year. I have four sons, so I live three months a year with each one.”
“Don’t you get tired of the changes?” Mia asked.
“Sometimes. But I don’t have to do it forever.”
“That’s good. You’re getting a place of your own then?”
“Yep. A mansion in glory. Just as soon as I die.” And then he laughed. “We’ll be up there a lot longer than we’ll be here, you know.”
Mia’s daughters interrupted the conversation. “Mom and Dad, the youth group is going out for pizza. Okay if we go?”
When the girls left Daryl said, “Guess that’s just the two of us to eat your chicken and biscuits.”
“Homemade biscuits?” Grandpa Peters asked. “Haven’t had them since I left my country church in Michigan.”
“I knew it!” Mia said.
“Knew what?” Grandpa Peters looked puzzled.
“I could explain over dinner. Want to come?”
“I’d have to get permission.” He chuckled again.
The pastor was walking by, and Grandpa Peters said, “Hey, Junior, pretty good sermon, I guess. And these nice folks invited me for dinner. What do you say?”
“Only ‘pretty good,’ huh? Usually you say it’s excellent.”
“Pretty good seems to be the consensus today.”
Grandpa Peters grinned at his son. His son looked puzzled. Red began to creep up Daryl’s neck into his face.
The pastor turned to Mia and Daryl. “I’m glad you came today, and thanks for inviting Dad for dinner. I hope you come back.”
“We will, Pastor Peters,” Mia said.
“Call me Joe,” the pastor said. “Everyone does.” And then he disappeared into the crowd.
“You didn’t say your son was the pastor,” Mia said.
“Yep, and he’s named after me. All four of my sons are preachers. Guess they followed in my footsteps. Except I never had a large church. All mine were country churches in Michigan. And I preached in a suit, not jeans; we sang out of a fat, green hymnal, and people called me Pastor Peters, not Joe.”
“Times change, don’t they?” Daryl asked.
“Sure do,” Grandpa Peters said. “But Jesus doesn’t.”
Daryl smiled at Mia, and she smiled back. Then they each took one of Grandpa Peter’s arms and headed out of church with the first dinner guest they’d had in seven years.
The end
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
“I hope I’m not the only kid in my Sunday school class again, Mom. ”
This reminded me of when I went ot my daugheter’s parents’ evening and read the exercise book in which he had written her weekend news each Monday. I was the leader of the Sunday school at our little village church, but I was surprised how often she had written, “on Sunday we went to Sunday School. Only our family was there.” There were quite a few other children, but often they found other things to do on a Sunday morning. Our kids were the only ones who had to come every week.
Judy, thanks for sharing. My Sunday school class is very small, but I love teaching the few who come. Your story reminded me of long ago Wednesday evenings when our children were little and often the only ones at church. Blessings, Donnna
Simply beautiful, dear Donna. Thank you so much. I’m so very thankful we sing the old hymns at our church. I’ve been going to Berean since I was born and our music has never changed. The old hymns are full of everything wise, pure, and beautiful. If a person does not own a Bible, an old fashioned hymn book teaches the Gospel nearly as well.
Thanks, my friend,
Deborah, Thanks for writing. A lifetime in one church is unusual these days. Berean is blessed to have you. God bless you, Donna
Lovely article, Donna!!
I too miss the older hymns. We have a folk choir accompanied by drum and guitar. It’s a different way, but it is still praising the Lord, and is very enjoyable. But I remember the old green hymnal and the hymns I have memorized ❤️❤️
Jean, thank you for taking time to write! Sometimes I can picture the church of my childhood and see the people in the pews singing the sweet old hymns we still sing in our church. It’s a wonderful memory to have, isn’t it? Blessings, Donna
Memory provoking!! I am afraid that we are rarer than diinosaurs any more. God bless! love you guys! Fred and Rachel
Hi Fred, and thanks for writing. Memories are a precious gift. And yes, we are dinosaurs! 🙂 All the new music isn’t bad, and it too will be old and bring back memories someday, but we’ll be singing in heaven by then. See you there! Blessings, Donna