The uncertain fate

The church where my parents were married, where I was married, where my children were baptized and confirmed and where I taught Sunday School for more than 20 years, is closing.

 

The membership of Trinity Lutheran Church of Wilton is down to somewhere around 20 active members, and keeping the doors open is no longer financially viable.

 

Along with all the personal connections I mention, I know that my grandfather, New Richland area resident Alfred Schroeder, was among the volunteers who helped build the high-arching brick structure which has been the congregation’s home since the 1950s. His brother, Ted Schroeder, was coerced by the big-hearted, German-accented pastor of the time, Rev. G.W. Malling, to learn how to work with stained glass so that he could make the windows. 

 

Rev. Malling created the designs. My class of 13 area middle schoolers was the last set of learners Rev. Malling confirmed. He explained to our class in the early 1970s–and I presume to every class before us–that images in the windows on the north side of the church represented the divisions of the church year. 

 

Symbols on the south side were chosen to accompany a prayer he had written and prayed at the beginning of each service. In the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, ever blessed trinity, in this thy church we pray: Gather into thy eternal harvest our families, confirmed in faith, who are thine through baptism and communion.

 

It happened I was alone in the church earlier today, looking at those windows, those walls, and thinking that the fate of the building is uncertain.

 

Conversations that have taken place since this spring when discussion of closing the church began have suggested the closing will lead to a grieving process not unlike that which follows a death. In fact, I’ve noticed similarities to a death watch. There are times when I drive past the church and find myself wondering what it will be like when it is an unused building, or one which has been repurposed in some way.

 

There are tendencies toward guilt: Am I taking care of the legacy created by those who came before me? Toward sentimentality: What will it be like when those high beams, the striking altar, the resounding ring of the church bell, are no longer mine to appreciate on Sundays and holy days? Even, to a small degree, toward relief: I do not expect my church associations in the future will lead to the level of responsibility I feel for this church and its operations. Over the past few years, our declining numbers have placed more and more tasks on the shoulders of fewer and fewer people, and closing the church will bring that to an end.

 

But the epiphany I reached today as I walked through the still-whole church is that even if the building closes, that does not undo the dedication, fellowship, love, service, and good-spirited fun which coalesced here over the generations. Those offerings have been here, stubbornly whole, as our numbers declined and the dust began to gather.

 

A smile formed on my face as the understanding coursed through me: I cannot ever truly leave them behind because they are part of me. They are as enduring as the souls which received their final earthly send-offs in this building. As invincible as God’s love.