So, my church closed. Bill and I have attended Hope Reformed
virtually all of our married lives. We were drawn there by the people, by the
choir, by the commitment to social witness. We both served in a variety of
capacities over the years, and our three older kids were baptized there.
It has been a great church for a million reasons. There were
also struggles, some of which it eventually became impossible to overcome. Even
as we watched the decline, even understanding that closing might be “the best”
direction, the closing seemed to come suddenly, abruptly, with a kind of rip-the-bandaid-off
feel. And then we were done.
Every loss, every grief is different, but each also brings up
past loss and grief. In this closing I remember the closing of the
denominational magazine I had served for many years, which also came about with
swiftly and unexpectedly. In the loss of this church I also remember the loss
of loved ones, particularly the loss of my stepmother and my mother, great
ladies I still miss every day.
The church building will see new life as a church start. The
new occupants will have a use for the furniture, the toys in the nursery, and
the pans in the kitchen, but will have less use for the plates emblazoned with
Hope’s monogram, the art donated by members long gone, or 50 white table
clothes. So a few weeks after the final service, members were invited to stop
by the church and carry home the flotsam and jetsam of 75 years of ministry.
Of course I went; I am a scavenger by nature. It also seemed
important to honor these relics by keeping them in the family. The story of the
church and its works still lives in these things: vessels used for God’s
service, just like the people who worshiped and served there.
The best part about the morning was reminiscing with the
people there: remember this event, that person? There were pictures from youth
groups in the past, the church’s original blueprints, some fabulous fancy
coffee pots, and a couple of fake Christmas trees. We laughed and shared and
clung to these last moments together. I love these people, and I will miss
them. We will keep in touch some, I am sure, but we will ultimately go our
separate ways. And that is grief.
Later that same afternoon, my niece was married. Well, technically
she’s my step-niece, the daughter of my stepbrother, but when my father and
stepmother married, they made a concerted effort to blend the families. When
Dad and Mickie married, all of their kids were adults, so we never lived
together under one roof, but in the early days of their marriage those of us
who were local got together about once a month. And as we married and had kids,
we managed to merge into one family. The kids, especially, saw no boundaries;
they loved getting together, and still do. As close as some of them were, they
always made room when cousin Elizabeth was in town from Florida, or when
suddenly two cousins were brought in from Ethiopia. They had learned from Dad
and Mickie that family is fluid and beautiful, and that a bigger circle brings
greater joy and more love, not less.
Almost all of those cousins were present for Olivia’s
wedding, along with their significant others. We got them all together for a
picture, and I was struck by the beauty of it. When my mother died, I couldn’t
have imagined that my understanding of family could be as large as it is now.
When Mickie died, I couldn’t have imagined that, more than ten years later, we
would still be as close and connected as we are.
Without the brokenness that comes with grief, we would not
have this present joy, these relationships, this family. The brokenness of the
past opened the door to new life and great love. I would have never chosen this
path—my mother’s death—to get to where I am now. I still miss her, and still
see the injustice in her painful death at a relatively young age. But I see the
gifts that her death provided me: a deeper appreciation of life, and deep and
loving relationships with people I might otherwise never have even met.
My church family is about to be deployed to other churches,
and I have no doubt that they will put their considerable gifts to service in
these other congregations. They will carry on, and they will meet and love and
cherish new people and new programs. As for me and my house: after working for
a denomination for several decades—a tenure that did not end well for me—my
people and I have had a bellyful of organized religion and probably won’t be
church shopping anytime soon. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s never say
never. I believe that there are good days ahead, and that sometime in the
future, today’s brokenness will open wide to become the jagged path to great
joy and great love. As always, I live in Hope.
