Looking back at a little country church

It was a humble beginning for marital communication. My new bride of two weeks was in the kitchen, and I was in the bedroom. It was a bright morning in our first home, the parsonage of Wabash United Church of Christ, located nine miles west of Celina in the tiny little hamlet of Wabash.

The parsonage was the last building on the north side of the village. It was surrounded by a farm; on the other side of the driveway entering our property was a lot full of pigs, complete with swinging doors banging 24 hours a day in their houses. Across the road was a field of grazing cattle, a new environment for a girl who hailed from West Orange, N.J.

Never was her adjustment more obvious to Midwest farm country than it was that warm July morning in 1970. A cow aroused in the field across from us let out a major "moo." To my startled heart, Joyce came back into the bedroom and said, "Jim, what was it that you said? I didn't quite understand it."

Suddenly we both had a good laugh. Two weeks into serving our first small country church, there was obviously some work to be done in our own communication efforts.

In addition to the church, Wabash still had a little combination gas station and general store where everyone ordered their Thanksgiving turkeys.

There was a telephone company and the Wabash Garage, a small body shop where owner Bob Shirk served the community well. A couple of nights a week, the guys gathered in the house on the corner to play cards. One night a week, lights lit up the few bleachers behind the church when there was a game in the Mercer County Church Volleyball League.

It was all part of a changing culture, a small community struggling to stay alive in the midst of emerging giant department stores and the advantages of larger communities.

Then there was the "young minister" and his wife, enjoying the small social events, such as monthly carry-in suppers at different homes in the community, and the biweekly youth meetings at the parsonage. Fifteen kids gathered for some (still) old-fashioned fun and snacks.

Admittedly, there was a lot of young minister wetness behind the ears, like the time I fell down the steps exiting the church. Then there was the day I served fermented communion wine because the home communion kit had failed to make it back into the refrigerator over a period of several days.

But there were also the early encouraging miracles, like the day I wanted to make hospital visits in Lima, Celina and Fort Wayne, Ind. Only the lack of funds was going to keep me from going.

At the breakfast table I made the comment to Joyce, "if I had three dollars to buy gas (imagine that!) I could make my hospital rounds."

To our amazement, two hours later when the mail arrived, there was a $3 gift certificate to the local general store/gas station from Harry Spriggs, the sweet little farmer that lived up the road from us. It was the beginning of a "faith journey" that has guided our steps day by day to the present.

I conducted my first wedding in that little church. Denny and Kathy Shirk were married. My nervousness didn't come through until I made the pronouncement, "and now it's my happy privilege to congratulate and present to you, Mr. and Missim Denim Shirkus," to the amusement of all.

Nov. 7, 1971, was our final service in that quaint country church. It was a day I'll never forget. I baptized nine people that day; we had a carry-in dinner where there were many tears and hugs. To make the day more immortal, my grandmother, who had lived with us, died the evening of the same day.

Over the years, people from that little congregation have kept contact with us. There has been a lifelong bonding, a heart in love with that first little setting. I've been called back for communions, baptisms and funerals when the minister has been away.

So, when I received a letter from one of the members in June, I didn't think much about it until I opened it and saw that I was being invited to the church's closing on Aug. 3. My inward tears met the lump in my throat as I felt the pain of another country church being forced to close by the changing culture.

It's been a few weeks now since Joyce and I attended that emotional service. Attendances that had been running only 12 to 14 people expanded to a full house that Sunday as members and friends returned from all over the area.

One more time, I was given the opportunity to stand by the front door with other ministers who attended to embrace congregational members as they exited the church for the last time.

Following the service, we went to the local grange hall for one final country church feast prepared by outstanding church cooks. Lots of pictures were taken. Nearly that entire first youth group returned. It was amazing to see those "teenage kids" approaching age 50 (and I, at 60). Lots of changes had taken place, but the bond was still there as though the years had never parted.

The large crowd indicated how many lives the church had touched over its 128-year history. And although the doors of the building are now closed, there was no question to those attending that day that the spirit of Wabash United Church of Christ will live on forever in the hearts of faithful adherents.