The Broken Road

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.