Friday, December 11, 2015

Saying Goodbye to good guys

I received an email late last night telling me some somber news. Iota United Methodist Church will have one final Christmas service. It will close its door on December 27 with a service at 11 a.m.

I was moved, touched, and saddened. Attendance had dwindled to a few. Kids grew up, moved out and on. It's happening more and more.

Another church, particularly in the United Methodist denomination, has come, spent years being receptive to those who would come, and has gone.

I remember the first time we went there, where I served two years. You took a winding road out of Eunice, La., down through rice and crawfish fields. I served Eunice, Iota and Church Point United Methodist Churches and felt a great deal of love for and from them. And one is going away.

Funny thing is I remember a white house along the way.

The grass around it was neatly trimmed, at about half an acre around it I imagine. The house was painted white, though a new coat or two sure wouldn't have hurt. It looked tattered in places, it being wood and all.

The roof was tin, and I could just hear the rain battering it some morning, tap, tap, tapping like ravens on the ceiling.

There was a television antennae, like the type you used to see in the 60s. One wonders what could possibly come from it?

In our time in Eunice/Iota/Church Point, we would pass it four times a week, twice going, twice coming. Once early Sunday morning, once coming back a couple hours later. Once on Mondays, before the light of the sun begins to wane, once coming back when it was near dark and the sun set  orange behind the house to the west.
I
 never saw a car there. Never saw a light on in the house. I wondered what the story was.

It made me wonder if there was any. Was this house a remnant of someones good past? Did the owner die and the children refuse to sell it because they have so many memories wrapped up in its little rooms?

I never knew. I never will. I have no idea what its story truly was.

But I noticed.

The point, hidden deeply within these words, is how often do we drive by her, walk past him, and never see or hear or feel them, the lost, the least, the worst and the best of us all? What is their story? What drives them? What has hurt them?

Are they battered by sunset and sunrise? Are they adrift as night overcomes the blank, dried out fields of their lives?

Will we ever stop and ask? Will we ever know what their story is?

I have this annoying new habit, annoying to myself anyway. I can be watching an old movie, as I did this weekend when Close Encounters came on, and I've got my I-pad in my lap and I wonder whatever happened to...

This time it was the kid in the movie. Turns out he appeared in a few movies, then lost contact with the viewing public. Rumor has it he is an investment banker. I wonder if he watches when Close Encounters comes on? Does he remember the days of the shoot? Does he ever wonder why his career came to a close so early?

If only I could bring myself to do the same with those around me; just notice when they're sitting, walking, driving, or even in my pews. The least, the lost, the hurting are all around us. We just have to notice.

What's their story?

Mrs. Irma. Mr. Bucky. Mrs. Charlene. The Hendersons. The Roses. And on and on. Parents buried. Time spent in a church that I remember being about 100 years old.

What's its story? Is this where the world is headed? Churches closing with a bit of remorse and a touch of sadness?

Time passes, sunsets and sunrises come and go, and we never even know their story.

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