A Congregational Change

I checked my mail today to find the monthly newsletter from my home church in my box. I love getting the newsletter and catching up on the news of that community, even though I moved away and only attend there sporadically. As I flipped to page four, I noticed a box marked "Congregational Change". There it was: a paragraph announcing my change of membership to another church, and a brief explanation that it's because I'm seeking ordination in a different conference. I've known it was coming for a while. The change is a result of a decision I made and the effort I put forth to see it through. But for a minute I sat staring at the page and feeling like I was going to cry.

It's as though I've moved out all over again, I've left home once more. I love that church. For the life of me, I can't remember a time when that church wasn't home to me. I grew up there, holding the wrinkled hands of the elderly members who were like grandparents to me. I remember whining about putting on tights and dresses to sit on the hard wooded pews of that sanctuary. I remember filling in all the O's and zeros in the bulletin while words I didn't really understand washed over me. I recall standing on the pew to see the hymnal in my mother's hands, and hearing all the rich voices raised in song around me.

I was baptized in that church when I was ten. Every time I see the baptismal font at the front of that sanctuary, I remember the feeling of love and responsibility as the pastor dripped wet hands on my scalp, telling me that I belonged to God and to that community.

I know the building like I know my own reflection. I used to explore it while my mom counted the collection and play Sardines there during Girl Scout overnights and MYF lock-ins. I practiced organ in the sanctuary while a rogue bat flew around the ceiling. I know the secret rooms and the stairway to the bell tower, and I can walk around in the dark without fear. It's as safe and comfortable to me as the house where I lived for 17 years.

I can still remember Sunday School lessons and learning the Lord's Prayer, running down the red carpet to children's time and sitting in the balcony with my friends feeling quite grown up. I recall confirmation classes and conversations that made the stories from the Bible real.

But most of all, I remember the people. I remember being able to walk up to anyone in the sanctuary and trust them. I can see the faces and feel the hugs, I can hear the voices lifting hymns to the top of the stained glass windows, and I can even imagine precisely where everyone sits in the sanctuary and whether I could find them working in the kitchen or chatting in the fellowship hall after the service. It's their support that has allowed me to go this far. It is the lessons they taught me that nurtured my faith and prepared me for a life of service. Every day, I thank God for them and pray that they continue to do the same for everyone who passes through their doors.

I haven't attended that church regularly in six years, and now my membership is even registered somewhere else. But no matter where I serve or worship, that building, those people, that community is still my home church.