History made and lost

I received an email the other night telling me some somber news. Iota United Methodist Church will have one final Christmas service. It will close its doors on today with a service at 11 a.m.
I was moved, touched, and saddened. Attendance had dwindled to a few, I knew. But I didn’t know it was like this. Oh, 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 to Iota, where I would serve two years. We took a winding road out of Eunice 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. Now one is gone, like sunrises and sunsets.
I remember a lot of things about this church. The people. The old pews. Saints who have gone on before us. Those who sing a heavenly chorus, in harmony with those who have come and gone.
Jesus has rolled the stone away, and is walking about. That’s the newness of the moment. But along with that victory, there are other small ones.
Funny thing is I remember a white house deep in a curve along the way.
The grass around it was neatly trimmed, at about half an acre I imagine. The house was painted white, though a new coat or two sure wouldn’t have hurt. It looked tattered in places, wood frame and all.
The roof was tin, and I could just imagine 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 story at all. 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.
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 a while back 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 the kid now grown into adulthood 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? How good has time been for them.
Mrs. Irma. Mr. Bucky. Mrs. Charlene. The Hendersons and their fight with cancer. The Roses. And on and on. Parents buried, marriages tangled and let go of. Time spent in a church that I remember being about 100 years old when we arrived.
We all have our stories. We all have our good days and our bad. What’s the story? Is this where the world is headed? Churches closing with a bit of remorse and a touch of sadness, a touch of music, some flowers, some tears shed like winter rain?
Time passes, sunsets and sunrises come and go, and sometime we never even know their story.
Billy Turner is a pastor of the United Methodist denomination and a retired journalist.