The smells, sounds, and people of country churches stir an emotion within me that is deep and powerful. For those who have never had the opportunity to experience this blessed experience, let me explain. From the moment you step into the vestibule (never called a foyer in a rural church), you instantly smell the footsteps of every person who has crossed that threshold - the mother with a load of kids in tow, the farmer, the truck driver, the wayward child. If those paneled walls could talk, they would tell of grace and guilt and sorrow and joy that couldn’t be hidden on the faces of the souls that dared to cross that doorway. Those walls would write books of clinched fists, tears on the altar, and singing from the saints. The smell of the aged carpet, whose color may have caused an outright quarrel in a business meeting, the creak of the floor, and the golden memorial tags lead you to a nostalgic thing of days gone by - a pew, padded if you’re lucky. As you wait for the obligatory
When called on to pray in my sweet Sunday School class on Easter Sunday, I found myself choking up as I thanked God for a resurrected Savior who is sitting in Heaven at His Father's right hand. I reflected that Jesus is just waiting at God's side for the command to go call God's children home. My heart was likely recalling the memorable words of the gospel song, " Midnight Cry ," that reminds believers that we will hear the sound of a heavenly trumpet that will trigger our journey to our forever home. But my thoughts were also drawn to the recent memory of my son sharing his handwritten Last Will and Testament with me. The occasion was out of the blue and I questioned whether or not I even wanted to open the leather-bound journal that he offered me. No mother expects their eighteen year-old son to take the time to itemize their assets, beneficiaries, and ultimate wishes. I read through tear-filled eyes about the distribution of his assets to the places and peopl