The Greatest Celebration

by Donna Poole

The corn grew tall that July weekend, just as it had done when the Potawatomi had roamed this land. Sweet and clear, the church bell rang out over the green fields. It was saying, “It’s time to celebrate! Come on over.”

The church had hosted many celebrations in its century long history, standing on the corner where two dirt roads meet. Old timers told of weddings where guests had stood four-deep outside around open windows trying to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. And the one room schoolhouse next door that had served as both a community club and a church fellowship hall had its own stories to tell of spelling bees and quilt making parties.

The four corners had once boasted a post office, a country store, a grange hall, and a church. Only the church was left. A local newspaper said the once bustling corners was now “barely a presence on the map.” That might be true for some, but for the pastor who’d spent his entire adult life there, loving on the broken and the hurt, the church was his heart.

The pastor had guided several generations of children during his years at that church, including his own children and his grandchildren. When his kids had been young, they’d gone to church for Sunday school, morning worship, evening service, and Wednesday prayer service. They’d never questioned going or complained about it, even when they were teens; it was just part of life. They’d loved the church, and the church had usually loved them back. That’s not to say they hadn’t rejoiced when a snowstorm, or a loss of electrical power. or some other event had closed the church for the day.

When the kids had been young, prayer meeting had started late to give the farmers a chance to finish milking before coming. It had also been the service most poorly attended. The pastor’s boys had often stood, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, peering out of the clear glass section of the stained-glass windows, hoping against hope that no one would pull into the parking lot.

“Dad, it’s five minutes after eight. How long do we have to wait until we can go home?”

“Someone might still be coming. Let’s give it until quarter after.”

If it had been winter, they’d taken turns abdicating the window watch to go stand on the big square register between the pews, the only heat source. The old furnace beneath the register had moaned and groaned, struggling to keep up with the wild winds whipping around the white frame building. Usually, the winds had won.

Sometimes, when the fifteen minutes had expired, the kids had gotten their wish. No one had come to prayer meeting, and they’d gotten to go home.

Other times, the boys had groaned at twelve minutes after eight o’clock. “Oh no! Here comes Anna May.”

The children, two boys, two girls, now middle-aged adults were there today for the celebration. And so were many others who’d grown up travelling down the dirt roads to the white frame church. As they waited for the celebration to begin, people reminisced about the old days.

“Remember when you threw the baseball through the stained-glass window?”

“As I recall, it was you who did that!”

“Well, remember when you tried to throw one of the girls’ flip flops over the roof and it got stuck up there, so you tried to knock it off with a frisbee, and that got stuck too?”

“I do believe I remember that.”

The new fellowship hall, the one the pastor didn’t think he’d ever live long enough to see finished, was completed, but barely in time. It still smelled like fresh paint. It could seat one-hundred twenty people, a proud number for the little church on the corners, and it was packed full of at least that many. Some talked fondly of happy fellowships in the old schoolhouse, but it had seated only about fifty people and had no running water, and no indoor bathroom.

For that matter, the church itself had no running water and no indoor bathroom when the young pastor and his wife had come, with their two-year-old, to rural southern Michigan fifty years before. The “bathroom” had been an outhouse outback. The pastor’s wife had found it humorous that in warm weather every child in the church had to make at least one trip to the outhouse, but when it had been cold or rainy, no one had to go.

The pastor’s wife was quiet that celebration day as she watched the women bustling in the kitchen area, finishing the last-minute food preparations. For years she’d overseen everything like that and had cooked a good deal of the food too, but those days were long gone. She looked at her walker, but not with regret. The years had been good years. Time had dulled the hurts that had happened in the little country church and had left in their place only a warm gratitude for the love and community she’d found here. She’d never expected to feel contented to be an old lady, but she was, except for that one thing she couldn’t change. She’d not fight with the Lord about that; what good would it do?

Someone tapped the mic. It was time for the celebration to start; the church was honoring her husband’s fifty years of faithful service. He’d come to the country community not knowing a combine from a planter or beans from winter wheat. But he’d learned. He’d helped chase down stray cows and pigs, saved a calf from a pack of wild dogs, and once had dropped down a coal chute to rescue children accidentally locked inside a house. God had blessed him for that half-century. Big churches might scoff at what looked small to them, but she believed the old song, “Little is much when God is in it.”

He was no Billy Graham, her man, but he’d helped a few here and there find God. And he’d loved his people well and taught them to love one another. He’d loved her well too, and his children and grandchildren. Some of them were speaking today to honor him.

But first the singing! How that church could sing! Then came the speaking. So many people, so many words.

One son said, “There aren’t many left like my dad. I’m proud to be his son.”

A daughter said, “He tried everyday to live what he preached. I love him so much.”

A little girl said, “His face made me happy.”

After thirty minutes of praise that would have made an angel blush, they asked the pastor’s wife to speak. She said only a few words; she didn’t have strength for more. “I want to say we love you and thank you. We wouldn’t be what we are; we couldn’t have done what we have without you. Now I want to read you one of our favorite verses.”

Her hands trembled as she tried to turn the pages, and a daughter helped her find Psalm 115:1. “Not unto us, O Lord,” she read, “but unto thy name give the glory, for thy mercy and for thy truth’s sake.”

And then came the food, such an abundance of food prepared by loving hands in honor of this celebration.

The pastor’s wife didn’t eat much; she was so tired, but she loved hearing the conversation and laughter flow around her. She wished today never had to end; she’d hold it in her heart forever. But it did end, as all things must.

Her son helped her to the car. “Mom, do you ever wonder about God’s timing? Why did He have to take Dad to heaven last week? Dad would have loved today.”

She looked up at him and smiled through her tears. “I missed him terribly today, but I kept thinking this beautiful celebration was nothing compared to what he’s enjoying now.”

Her son bent down and hugged her. “You’re right, Mom. He’s having the grandest celebration of all.”

The church bell rang sweetly again, signaling the end of another wonderful day at the corner where two dirt roads meet. And the corn grew tall.

The End

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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

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole