That little church was demolished in the sixties during urban renewal, then met in a bank basement, then a cavernous sanctuary historic church that had lost its congregation during white flight from that once prosperous residential city. During those years the congregation dwindled. The youth group, by the time I reached youth group age, was my two older siblings and their two or three best friends.
I remember that congregation with fondness. They were far from perfect. Even as a kid I could see odd discrepancies in their theology. Yet they were generous and kind. Our family had no car, but there was always someone willing to drive extra miles to pick us up. There were people in that congregation who prayed for us, watched that our needs were met, drove me to college years later when I needed a ride.
During high school I lived in Yorktown, New York, farther north, just two blocks from another little church, Calvary Bible. It was a non-denominational congregation led by a part-time pastor who sold insurance during the week. I remember walking to church on snowy mornings, and walking through snow on a wintry Wednesday night to prayer meeting. There was never a question of Sunday morning attendance, but Sunday evenings and Wednesday nights were more voluntary in our household. I went regularly, for the hymns we sang on Sunday nights, for the certainty that prayer was real that surrounded me in that little white building on quiet Wednesday evenings.
The first church my husband Whitney and I joined was Woodland Presbyterian, in West Philadelphia. I remember walking there on snowy mornings, and remember a snowy morning when friends from Woodland arrived at our first apartment to play a game of Risk. Many in that congregation lived within blocks of each other. It was a multi-ethnic, multi-generational family, a place that exemplified welcome and grace and shaped Whitney and me in more ways than we could measure. There was a shared lunch every Sunday, supposedly for the college and career fellowship, but in reality anyone and everyone took part.
We have a cookbook made in those days. One entry: John Dakota's Spaghetti Sauce, beginning "Start with love" and ending "Pepper to taste." Everyone who knew John, a tall man of mixed African and Native American descent, knew he would empty a whole pepper shaker on any dish before he ate it. John's personal ministry was to pick up anyone who needed a ride to church, then take them home again, some before lunch, some after. John died not long ago, and the congregation dissolved a few years ago, but we are still close friends with some we knew in those days, still remember how much we learned and grew during those early days of marriage.
We spent fourteen years in Virginia. While there we attended Truro Episcopal Church, a large, historic, mostly affluent congregation, with multiple services and a reach in ministry that spanned the globe. I remember driving there on snowy mornings, hoping we'd find a place to park. That church was alive with the Holy Spirit: exuberant in worship, active in outreach to the poor, planting new churches as it outgrew its multiple services. Never perfect, but blending historic streams of faith in exciting ways that suggested the best of what a church might be: liturgical, charismatic, committed to mission, creative in its care for children, always looking for new ways to welcome strangers and blend the best of new and old.
God led us to our current church, Church of the Good Samaritan, through a difficult year after our move back to Pennsylvania in 1998 when Whitney accepted a role as president of Scripture Union USA. We started out at a large non-denominational church down the street from our home, but ten months in felt clearly that wasn't where we needed to be. We visited a mix of local churches, praying together that God would lead us. Our first Sunday at Good Samaritan, we all agreed: this is where we should be. Two years later I found myself applying to be associate youth pastor. I left youth ministry eleven years later but we're still attending Good Samaritan, along with our daughters, our son-in-law, our three grandchildren.
Good Samaritan, until the pandemic, was also hosting weekly lunches, begun to make sure college students would have lunch if they missed their campus meal, but quickly growing to include anyone who wanted to share a meal together. I miss those deeply: the conversation with friends and newcomers, the chance to share life with young parents and aging parishioners. I miss worshipping together, and the chance to pray for others, the little side conversations about how we're all doing and what's on our minds for the week ahead.
It's harder, in this time of virtual reality. And odd to realize, as I watch huge snow flakes sailing from the sky: a snow day doesn't mean church is cancelled. We'll still join and worship and pray, despite the snow.
And around the globe, despite the snow, despite the pandemic, despite human imperfection and political division and all the changes life throws our way, God's people still gather, to sing, to pray, to be reminded of grace, always grace, that sweet never-ending song that echoes across the centuries, around the globe, holding us together, reminding us of what is most real, warming our hearts on a cold wintry Sunday.
