The Old Church Reprised

The Old Church Reprised                                  4-19-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

 

One of the very first essays I wrote for my blog was titled, “The Old Church”.  That short was written more than two years ago.  It remains in the archives of “Ramblings…Essays and Such” and has been published in The Plymouth Pilot News.  But the inspiration is a story of its own.

“The Old Church” stood on a corner across the street from the hardware store in Walkerton.  Though
I arrived in this community long after its construction, I know a bit of its history.  For you see, that building was built by our congregation in the “wee” years of the twentieth century.  I had an opportunity to read a newspaper article about First Presbyterian’s building of that sanctuary.  The part that stood out most was how members of the congregation poured, on site, the thousands of concrete blocks that were used to make what in its day was a grand edifice.  I have spoken to members of my congregation that worshipped in “The Old Church”.  They speak of the beautiful windows and detailed woodwork.  I, unfortunately, have never stepped inside the once proud structure.  We sold the building to the Pentecostals in the early sixties which ended more than fifty years it housed our congregation.  In the nineties the Pentecostals built their own new structure across town.  Eventually “The Old Church” was sold and some may have had plans, but no use came to the stately edifice.

Each time I went to the hardware – and a farmer goes to the hardware often – I would look over “The Old Church” noticing the slow decay.  But it was after someone threw a brick through one of the magnificent windows that my heart began to break.  Vandals stripped the brass kick plate from one of front doors, another sign of disrespect.

You see that building – and its history – and the lack of honor of a structure built for the honor of GOD drove me to write, “This Old Church”.

It is but a grassy lot now.  The building torn down last fall.  My only view with in its wall came through the openings when the grand windows had been removed.  Soon few will remember that the building ever existed.

Perhaps that would be story enough, but in truth it amounts to only half.  For you see we moved from the LaPorte, Indiana area in nineteen seventy-two.  And with that relocation we left our church, St. Paul’s United Church of Christ which stood downtown.  That congregation had been our church home most of the years from nineteen forty-eight until we moved in seventy-two.  Only the two and a half years we lived in Florida had we worshiped elsewhere.

St. Paul's UCC during demolition in 2013

Our old church stood as a landmark in LaPorte’s heart for well over a century.  But in two thousand twelve the congregation disbanded and another “Old Church” stood empty.  I went back and took pictures of the grand limestone structure on Lincolnway and Perry Street.  How quickly the powers that be gave up on the building and even then the dismantling was well underway.  As a child I had moved through that building.  I knew of hidden hallways.  The pastor showed us all around the “out of the way” spaces – up the steeple to the bell – into the room that contained the pipes for the organ.  To me it was more than a building – it was part of my growing up.

Once when I went to visit a church member in LaPorte”s hospital -- right there, for the church practically stood in the parking lot – all that remained was a ragged hole where the Sunday School basement had been.  Yes, my heart broke at the vandalism of “The Old Church” in Walkerton, but the disappearance of St. Paul’s was personal.  Part of my life vanished – a significant part.

The essay I wrote may have been about one particular building, yet it stands for all the abandoned and ravaged structures that once housed active congregations – building erected to the glory of GOD.  Yes, a church is much more than brick and glass -- and yet within that brick and glass are the toil and sweat of many, and the memories – lives begun – families formed – and saints sent homeward.  A place where generations have gathered – uncountable sermons preached – where choir’s sweet voices rose – where halleluiahs and tears shared among a family broader than blood.

Perhaps “The Old Church” remains only in my memory – but I am richer for it!

(743 Words)

 

The Old Church            2-14-2012

By John W. Vander Velden  

 

Once proud on the corner, the monument of gray stone stands abandoned.  Now silent, how many years its great bell called, echoing throughout the town.  Long ago built with sweat and pride…long ago the center of many lives…long ago a sign of God’s presence…long ago….  Only the old remember; their eyes tear at the sight.  Scrappers have stolen the brass from her doors.  Vandals have broken the stately window of glass stained.  Stone has fallen from high up her walls.  Surely the roof no longer seals storms pounding rains.  Yet within perhaps something remains…something of the dignity…of the honor…of the truth.  Perhaps the scent of wax yet can be found among the dust and cobwebs in that place where so many lives began and others sent homeward.  The empty shell stands lonely, crumbling; the end of old dreams for God’s glory now in slow decay.  Most scarcely notice, moving past in life’s crush.  Many do not care…an eyesore, nothing more.  But to others there is nothing sadder than the old church.

 

(179 Words)

 

Fluttering in the Breeze

Fluttering in the Breeze         

By John W. Vander Velden

 

 

In the shade of fabric fluttering in the breeze beneath the morning sun in crystalline blue sky, a child stands stone faced and erect.  The white gloved hand of a young man, dressed in dark blue crouched upon his haunches, looks into the boy’s eyes.  The brim of his white hat shades clear earnest eyes as he shares words.  Words heard by no others.  Words of courage.  Words of honor.

Eyes watch the boy that one day will remember the words meant for him alone.  Remember the man he met first that day.  Remember the blue uniform and the gleaming brass buttons.  Remember the flag fluttering half way up the pole.  But most of all he will remember the pain and the loss.

Standing alone among the stones in ordered rows, a woman in black holds a sacred cloth folded.  The triangle shows a field of blue and white stars.  She lowers her head as drawing the flag to her breast, tears flow as the thoughts come again.  Thoughts of respect.  Thoughts of courage.  Thoughts of sacrifice

The woman will never forget the telegram, the words that each military wife dread.  Nor the men at her door, so young and tall that placed into her hands such small metal tokens.  Nor forget the pain which had driven her to her knees.

And we – that stand on the sidelines, as the flag flies but halfway up the mast -- must never forget those that paid the price in our stead.  Too easily we turn away.  Too easily we overlook the others that must face each day changed.  Those that have given the ultimate, but also the others left behind, whose lives must be lived around the gaping hole of their absence.

Shall we not live our lives to honor those that so willingly offered themselves for this country?  For with their actions they strove to make this world a better place for us all.  Or shall we allow the carefully prepared speeches to be nothing more than words fluttering upon the breeze…

(343 Words)

Moving Day or Mission (Nearly) Impossible

Moving Day or Mission (Nearly) Impossible.                       5-11-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

Just how much “stuff” does someone need to exist on campus?

Well, it was a great deal more than I ever imagined.  We had used a truck to move Nick to Purdue last August.  We really didn’t need the crew cab Ford, but it was nice to have plenty of space to cart the things vital for living.  You know the “stuff” that one simply cannot live without.  Things like a Kerrig Coffee Maker, microwave oven, and two shelving units.  The futon and loft – that is a bed – had been delivered.  The futon purchased the bed rented.  All the same computers – that’s right plural – clothing, rug, and bedding, among the rest seemed a sizable collection.  Greg supplied the TV – 42 inch plasma – and a nice refrigerator.  From the naïve point of view, I assumed we would be taking “stuff” back home with us that day, for surely there could not be space sufficient in the “closet” that these two young men would call home for the next nine months.  But when we left Greg and Nick had the space organized and as unbelievable as it was everything fit, even allowing room for them – and as we learned later up to ten of their closest friends – hmmm…

Now you and I know that things happen while living, and among the things that happen is the accumulation of “stuff”.  Nine months might not seem long to us, but to those that are living on their own for the first time it can be a lifetime.  So we add chairs for company, a ladder to climb into the bed, four packages of paper – which it turns out were not needed, a few extras like spare deodorant, laundry detergent, and the list goes on and on.

When we arrived at Harrison on Saturday morning there was so much “stuff” in the hallway; we could not imagine that it had in one time fit within the confines of the dorm room.  We had come down with two vehicles, a Jeep Grand Cherokee and a Chrysler PT Cruiser.  Both, though not large, very capable vehicles.  We had used the PT to cart all manner of things in the past.  Honestly with the seats flipped down you can haul an eight foot step ladder – but no passenger.  And with the Jeep’s seats flipped forward, it seemed cavernous – well sorta’.

Nick felt certain there would be no need to disassemble a thing – I knew better. The first thing we carted down the four flights of stairs, out the back door, down another set of stairs, across the parking lot and then the street, into the parking garage and finally into the back of the Jeep was the futon’s frame – hmmm… “There’s plenty of room.” I was told – I knew better.  We returned back the way we came, stairs and all. When we returned to the yet overflowing room, Nick suggested I go back and take apart the futon – which I had suggested in the first place, so I returned – stairs, parking lot, street, etc. and did what I do best, tear things apart.

A parking space opened up – closer – much closer – so the Jeep filled that vacancy.  Now the vehicle is quite capable, but it was not permitted to climb the stairs – all four flight and outside set, but a hundred yards closer is a hundred yards all the same.   

It became my primary job to turn large objects into smaller parcels and find ways to load the “stuff”.  Once the Jeep had been filled to capacity – and you might be surprised just how much it takes to fill the vehicle – we exchanged it for a much smaller Chrysler.  All the same with its seats down there is quite a bit of room – though it required a bit of rearranging, to load the last – a vacuum cleaner – and still have space for two.  Packed to the ceiling, all the “stuff” successfully loaded, we bound for home almost three and a half hours after arriving on campus.  By practice we knew the way back and forth and found that the rear view mirror not really required.  However each time I glanced that way I jumped a bit at the image of the Dirt Devil that filled the view. 

The sun shone on a beautiful spring afternoon as we set off leaving Purdue behind for the summer.  Following the two hour drive home, Nick unloaded most of the “stuff” into the space that had been our basement, and would be again once our world returns to an appearance of organization.  Hmmm….  

Life is an adventure.  I suspect it is best treated that way.  Saturday was just a page of a yet unwritten script that will lead us to new things.  Some of the things we will face might go smoothly – or seem easy.  Other tasks might take a bit more planning and effort.  And then there will be those days when the job doesn’t seem really possible.  But one step at a time – a baby step perhaps – and we will find that “nearly” impossible is not impossible!

I hope you will have a happy moving day – because we did!

(860 Words)

Rectangles in the Grass

Rectangles in the Grass                          

By John W. Vander Velden

I can still see the difference in the grass, for there is a part of the lawn where rectangles are visible even today.  You see, mom loved her garden, and at one time it took up a large portion of the side lawn.  Once a place where many kinds of food stuff – potatoes, cabbages, beans, corn, cucumbers, and so many other things grew, all in straight, though not necessarily parallel, rows.  Dad would rib her how the row spacing narrowed at the far end.  Mom did not always take those gibes with a smile.

Mom’s world had been different than what we know today.  Born across the sea, a child of nine, the harsh realities of the depression and maturing in an occupied country, shaped the woman she became.  She understood the “need”.  Her family would not go hungry.  Though the farm provided the milk and meat, she grew most of the rest.

But mom loved her garden.  Perhaps she understood it as something she did well.  Perhaps she never realized just how many things she did well.  So as she lived her life, wrapped up in the “each” day, the garden was a link – a link to her past – and her contribution to the future.  Everyone needs a link like that.

Yet her garden grew more than food, for each year rows of beauty could be found there as well.  Merry Golds, Cosmos, and Zinnias made up lines of color between the deep green of healthy plants.  Bouquets found their way into our home, but most often the beauty remained in the lines of contrast among the rows of beans and lettuce.

Mom took pride in her garden.  When family friends or neighbors stopped by, they admired the weed free space, where soil, sun, and water produced.  Few left without some offering of the hours, she had toiled the soil, for mom freely shared the bounty. 

The rectangles I see are in the first earth that was her own.  When the newlywed arrived in this country the soil she worked was on borrowed space.  Tenant housing on tenant farms, yet there had always been space sufficient for a garden.  The garden was the constant in all those very different places.  As was mother hunched between the rows with her hands moving among the plants, doing the work she loved.  Mom was forty-six when we arrived at this farm – their farm, and the ownership of the land fueled her gardening to an all-time high.  

But the garden was not the farm wife’s only duties.  Caring for the family, the endless cleaning our home, and a share of farm labor filled days un-numerable.  Yet she loved her flower beds and the garden, nurturing the plants while eliminating any stray unwanted vegetation that dared to intrude.  Each of us look for that something -- that something we can use to create – and mom’s favorite canvas was the soil.

Years passed, and with that passing, the always busy woman slowly became bent.  She fought each year dad required the garden surrender a bit, for a section on its east end would vanish returning to the yard it had been in the past.  A rectangle in the grass filled the space as the tilled world of my mother shrank.  Dad’s illness reminded him – daily – that there was a time for everything, and that the time and labor mom possessed was no longer infinite.  He understood mom could not, on her own free will, cut back her work load.

Little by little the garden shrank – one rectangle after another.  But the grass – the grass in each square, similar yet not identical, reminds of the past.  You see, from the farmhouse’s kitchen window, I can see those rectangles in the grass…

(625 Words)

Molded

Molded

by John W. Vander Velden                           

 

It occurred to me the other day how much I have been shaped by life itself.  For it seems the things I have faced, the good and the bad, the easy and the difficult, have had a profound effect on who I am…or more correctly what I have become.  I would never say I enjoyed the difficulties I have faced, the dark days, the very hard times.  Perhaps others would be affected differently, but each of these things has left its mark…a mark I feel…a mark I will wear all the days of my life.

Do I regret having to deal with these things I certainly did not choose to face…to face out of obligation or need?  The answer is no!!!  I have faced extreme pain and disappointment, both physically and emotionally.  I have grit my teeth and faced them.   Took a deep breath and faced them.  Done my best…often failed…but faced them.  They say what does not kill you makes you stronger, of this I am not certain, for these thing have severely wounded me.

What of others, are they also molded by those around them?  I would suspect all but the most insensitive are.  Perhaps those so caught up in themselves, building for themselves their own personal universe…remain untouched.  Those untouchables are the ones I pity.  Those too busy to see…to feel.  Those with hard hearts that are beyond the tears of a child.  But all the others, how much does the pain and tragedy of life around theirs affect them.  Only they would know…providing they take time to examine themselves…and not everyone does.

The things I have faced are not so unusual.  They are not things none others have dealt with.  Achievements…joys…disappointments…and loss…things that make up everyone’s life.  These things make me who I am.  It molds me into what I have become, with all my faults and weaknesses.  I believe GOD is making me into the person I am to be.  By feeling…by caring…by doing…though wounded…beaten down…nearly shattered at times…I am becoming a better person…molded…shaped by life…shaped by GOD.  I remember who I am…GOD’s child.  It is my place to care…to feel…and most certainly to try…even if those tries result in utter failures…to open myself up to become vulnerable to personal pain and through it personal growth.

I have been shaped by life itself…I am molded….thank GOD!!! 

 

(440 Words)