Attending the 175th anniversary of the church that I grew up attending was an event which took me back in time, and reminded me of much in life that has been important. This was a big deal, especially for my parents, who are Presbyterians of a sort that are not often seen in today’s world. Fully dedicated to the local church; fully and completely sold out to Jesus’ example of being servants and being salt and light to the people they encounter every day.

Over the years, I have been known to scoff at my Presbyterian heritage....my "religious" and "spiritual" training was dubious at best. Of course, in hindsight, I take much of the responsibility for being, at the time, somewhat unteachable, if not out and out belligerently opposed to all manner of instruction. Yesterday, sitting in the place where I spent every Sunday from the time I was in 2nd grade until I graduated, I realized that there were some foundational things that actually did permeate into my heart, mind, and soul, even way back then.

Sitting in the padded pews before the service started, I spent some time just looking around, taking in the visuals. Stained glass windows so expertly and lovingly crafted that I am certain they are no longer produced. Sunlight streaming in, creating the warm lighting that welcomes all who are illuminated by it. Tipping my head back, I marveled at the ornate, gilded painting which outlined the coved ceiling, bordered by beautifully carved ornate woodwork, not exactly baroque, yet not gothic either. It was all warm and familiar, and as the new reverend began to talk to all who were gathered there, many like myself, not "regular attenders" any longer, he asked us to take a moment to reflect upon the memories we had of this place.

At that point I was nothing, if not slightly uncomfortable, realizing that many of my fond memories, if brought fully into the light, might bring down lightning and fire from on high. I was thinking to myself, "if he only knew”, and then I felt a head turn and look back and when I looked over, my eyes, and memories were locked in sync with someone who, all those years ago, was very much a central figure in those fond memories, and somehow knowing I wasn't alone in my reverie (however irreverent) made me smile. Broadly.

Not at the memories, or even the shared connection, but mostly for how God has chosen to work in my heart despite my poor choices. I smiled then and even now, in gratitude to my parents for the experience of it all. If it were not for those experiences and exposure then combined with the everyday example my parents lived naturally, I don't believe that I would have ever known Jesus when I finally was able to hear him and see him in others.

Until that day, I had forgotten what a pipe organ sounds like, fully throttled up, and being played heartily. I had forgotten what it sounds like when 300+ voices sing the Doxology and the Gloria. I had forgotten that I knew "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing", and that in the last verse there is a key change and a big ending. I forgot what it sounded like to hear 70 year old sopranos singing the descant parts. (who am I kidding, I had forgotten what 70 year olds sound like singing period.) I had forgotten too, what it felt like to be sitting in a pew with my parents and family, feeling the pew shake when things started getting "dusty" for my dad, and how he looks when he presses his neatly folded hankie to his eyes in hopes that no one notices his emotions!