This past week we attended the funeral of a dear pastor from our ‘home’ church in Saginaw. What do I mean by ‘home church’? My ‘home church’ is that part of my memory bank where a lot of significant spiritual birth and growth began. My ‘home church’ is St. John Lutheran (2nd & Federal) in Saginaw, Michigan. For the time we lived in Saginaw it’s all I really knew. The church was established in 1852 (by a group of Germans) and eventually became the congregation that my mother’s parents joined upon their arrival to Saginaw from Europe in the early 1900’s. It’s the church that mom and her siblings were born into and educated in their small school through the 8th grade. It’s the church that mom and dad were married in and had us three kids baptized in as we came into this world. It’s the church where I met Jesus Christ as my personal savior and where I was married. It is the church where my own children were baptized as infants. It is the church where I sang my first solo…….and if confession is good for the soul…..stole a kiss from a boy when no one was looking. So, sitting in the pew for Doug’s funeral brought back a flood of  poignant memories accompanied by bittersweet tears. May I share some of those with you?

Above all, I cherish the many years that I would have attended and sat in the large sanctuary of St. John. We usually sat in the back of the church but as years passed mom and dad made their way to the front pews where they were joined by their closest friends.

When I reached junior high school age, I joined the youth choir. Later, I found myself in the Senior Choir, learning more difficult music and enjoying the ability to continue singing. It was here, under the direction of Verne Frede, that a shy 20 something year old was convinced over an hour lunch break to lay down fear and give solo work a chance. I am forever grateful for that leap of faith and Verne’s insistent challenge. Anyone who knew Verne knew how persuasive he could be when he had a goal in mind.

As I waited for the service to begin, I realized how all my senses were taking in the beauty of the sanctuary. There were the stained glass windows, the seasonal banners hanging from the chancel and the support beams of the ceiling. The piano and then the organ were spilling out familiar hymns and songs. As I listened to the music and gazed about the room my eyes came to rest on the Advent Wreath so beautifully displayed. A new rush of tears welled in my eyes as I realized that the walnut stained stand supporting the wreath was the one my dad had built in years past. Another remembrance for me of dad using his talents for The Lord. Dad served in many capacities over the years of being a part of St. John. I could see his face on the chancel as an assisting minister to read scripture, assuming his spot in the choir loft, or helping to make repairs to the building on a Trustees work day. Mom was more shy. She preferred to take a quiet role serving the church. She found a home in the prayer ministry and was a self-appointed encourager to younger folks. She also became a very proud grandma who was very patient tending to little Sarah while mom and dad were in the choir loft.

Perhaps the most difficult realization to grasp was an awareness of knowing that a large decline in attendance has taken place in the current season of St. John. A once packed sanctuary has given way to but less than 100 dedicated members gathering on Sunday morning for worship. It’s not hard for me to reach back into my youthful childhood memories and recall Christmas and Easter overflow of families causing the ushers to open the balcony. On Monday, an honest statement  “we dusted the balcony just in case” was shared. Sadly, the balcony wasn’t needed adding another dose of emptiness to a growing reality factor.

These are memories and some are mere things. Above all, in the midst of everything that I have described were the people that I saw and can still remember. I saw parents of kids that were in the youth group that I helped teach. I saw folks who sang in the choir with me. I saw folks who are old, worn, torn, but still loving and serving God. I saw a dear friend who was called into full-time ministry. And I saw dear, dear friends–even one who I call a sister. I saw one of the two pastors who taught me God’s Word during my catechism years. 

Can you go back ‘home’? While I cannot return to my family home other than to drive by now, I can go back to my ‘home church’ as long as the doors are open, take a seat in a familiar spot and open my mind and my heart to allow God’s Spirit to remind me of all that was good and beneficial to who I am today. If I close my eyes I can see the many Candlelight Services of Christmases past, the blanketed cross representative of Good Friday and Easter, the poinsettias or white lilies adorning the chancel and altar. I can hear the resonance of the organ and the call to worship by the ringing of the bells. Yes, I believe but for a moment one can ‘go back home’ and capture all that God has done, is doing, and will do in the season of growth for one of His children.