The windows were flung open.
On that particularly warm Spring morning, our old country church in rural Peterborough County was jam-packed, every seat taken, and lined with more folks at the back.
After three years of Covid, of closures, of minimal attendance, this little church had come back to life, paradoxically while marking the death, the send-off and burial, of someone who has seen our rural community through nearly one hundred years - through depression, war, flood, drought and plague, from the inside and from the outside of those very windows of our old country church.
We gathered in celebration of that long life, that of our eldest member, a person so much a part of our little church that it was hard to imagine the space without him.
The service was beautiful.
There were of course tears and laughter, stories and memories. I listened to it all, and couldn't help thinking back to when I first attended that church shortly after I moved to Peterborough Ontario more than twenty-five years ago. (Yes, I am a 'newbie', having only attended for a mere quarter-century.) This elder was then in his seventies, and was, I recall, warm and welcoming. I remember his handshake, his big farmer's grip, in spite of being lean and small in stature.
All those years ago, it was a daunting task to try to sort out relationships. It took a month of Sundays to connect the dots - partners, siblings, kids, extended families. But gradually, I began to remember the names of each person in my new church family.
Twenty-five+ years after I first stepped into that warm loving space, our regular Sunday gatherings are small. Even I, (in my comparatively short time there), have seen the attendance diminish - the Sunday School members have grown up, the young mothers and fathers all working full time, the oldest amongst us have passed on. And perhaps the early service on Sunday morning is more of a draw for the elderly. Yes, elderly. And a small bunch of us at that.
Small, but mighty.
We are, in every sense, a community. On the practical side, we pitch in with upkeep and maintenance - with cleaning, re-painting, refurbishing, recycling. We host fund-raisers and coffee hours, potlucks and pancake breakfasts. We care for those in need, we tackle social justice issues, we mark each other's special events, bring floral offerings from our gardens. We struggle with finances.
And we suffer together through meetings and meetings and meetings.
We bond through prayer and song. We are called and we answer. We are again and again uplifted and inspired and occasionally we are challenged. Challenged to rethink how something may have always been done, and being open to change.
Perhaps that 'change' signifies that we are alive.
*
It's Winter now, and while no less welcoming, those church windows are tightly closed against the cold. Sunday morning, and voices are raised in song - a rousing hymn, well known, belted out, (or at least as spirited a rendition as not-quite-twenty people can make), perhaps faintly audible outside the window. Here, a chickadee has landed, perched on a branch, still, peering in. A tiny thing of beauty, but no less important in the great scheme of things. Then it flits away, (as chickadees do) - head darting left, then right, a tiny flutter. And gone.
So like us, a small loving community in an old country church. A tiny thing of beauty in this big old world. And no less important in the great scheme of things.
But not gone. Not just yet.
