This morning, the kids and I hurried out the door to be late for “the best part” of Sunday service according to my mom.
I took the children to my mom’s church, because she asked me. She enjoys the people and services, and it’s a really nice church. It’s not the church walking distance from my parent’s house called Mt Joy (pictured). It’s not the other church in my home town where I used to sing in the choir called Eastern Star.
Still not Over not Going to Church at Home
That’s a problem for me. Still. My parents are genuinely gifted, influential, and devout Christians. But their church homes are not in the community they live. A community that’s withering. A community that needs their energy.
But my parents don’t want to see this community of New Castle rebuilt. They want to leave.
I’m not mad at them about this. I think I would feel similar in their shoes.
I am sad though. In one of many conversations with my dad about their shopping for a new home, my dad explained “We’re old people, son.” He went on to say they want something already built. They want something ready.
To paraphrase, he said rebuilding is for my generation. I understood, and it made sense. But I was no less disappointed with this truth. It meant I could expect my parents help in bringing prosperity to our home.
You Know How the Soldier Comes Home in Movies
My parents have earned a place at a table that’s already prepared. That’s fair. In a similar way, I wanted to come back to home that was ready for me to build on.
You know how in movies and stories, the soldier returns homes? He’s welcomed by family and old friends with a gathering. He’s showered with fits and waited on at meals. And So-n-So wants him to stop by the new office building to see about a job.
My favorite part of those stories is when he visits places where special memories were made. The tree he and his friends use to bike race to from his grandparents’ house. The big lope-sided hill they slid down that one winter it snowed like crazy in the south. The train tracks crossing that never had a gate. The places are more clear in memory than the faces and no less important.
I’m That Guy
I’m one of those soldiers that has finished military service and wants to come back home. But I get to see less and less of my family and friends here. They have left not to return. No children in the streets like we were. Homes left to rot. Lots turned to forests. Even the name of my hometown is gone. Google Maps calls it Gardendale.
I wanted to come back to a home that’s ready to receive me. It’s not there yet. I might die trying to breath life back into it — New Castle, AL.
For now, I can’t pour myself and energy into a church or other organization that isn’t pouring into my dying community. I can’t stomach the thought.
After delivering Gram’s (nickname for Grandmother) tithing envelopment to her church, the kids and I left and went to “the church where Daddy used to sing in the choice”, Eastern Star. The congregation is smaller than when I was a child. But the energy still warmed my soul.