A Church Alive in Memory

Those churches from our past never really diappear.  After my father's death my mother moved our family to a neighborhood on the edge of Waycross known as Hebardville.  Two blocks away was a Methodist Church which bore the name of the neighborhood.  It was close enough for walking.  It was also a very small church.  It was where I was baptized at age nine by a young pastor who would later end up marrying my mother.  It was also where when it came time to buy pews, my mother somehow managed to buy one in memory of my Daddy.  It was the first pew on the right side and it was where I always sat when we attended church which was every Sunday.    

I have not checked lately to see if it is still open.  So many small churches have closed over the years.  I hope this old church so alive in my memory is not one of them.  The only time I ever got taken out of church for misbehaving was in that church.  Once was all it took.  I don't think parents take children out of church anymore.  As my memory serves me, they just let them cut mischief while the preacher is trying to bring everyone into the sermon.  Certainly, it is a different world for the church and church-goers.    

No one would consider walking to church anymore, but we often did.  We used to gather some week nights at a home across the street from the church where a woman had an old pump organ and sing hymns and eat ice cream.  It was the early version of Wednesday night suppers.  And, of course, funeral home fans had not yet been replaced by air conditioning.  I can still see the old Hebardville Methodist Church in my memory and I wish there was some way I could tell it thank you for its part in making me into the man of faith I am.