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For many in the city of St. Louis, Missouri, it will be another Sunday, the last in July, but for a handful of German Saxon Lutherans, grief will supplant their centuries-old vision of the Sacred which they established in 1850; its name, Zion Lutheran Church in North City, is closing.
No longer will it be a dwelling place for God. No longer will congregants flock to Sunday services, attend the elementary school, gather for political discussions, and so much more, it being the hub of German culture.
With the prosperity of the city, all this changed. Decades of blight displaced the residents: Disintegrating hand-made brick homes were eventually torn down, the stripped lots choked with chicory tangles. Factory and ship-spawned soot also contributed to lung diseases and defaced limestone buildings. Survival prompted relocating to cleaner air. Yet, many congregants remained loyal to their church and attended Sunday services at Zion.
Years ago, attendance at their Midnight Mass drew my compassion for this impoverished Gothic church, its sixteen-bells carillon in the spire long silenced. Especially striking were the worn wooden kneelers, evidence of countless worshipers’ faith in God; tinsel-tired Christmas trees leaning against each other; pink walls clashing with the threadbare red carpet, the dank chill that no heating system could allay. Few worshiped with us that night in the candle-lit sanctuary.
Yet, my friend’s centenarian Mother still carries the stories of what happened there. Precious God remembers, too, with Kingdom blessings.
Last week a for-sale sign appeared on the sloping front yard of a brick bungalow, its overgrown hedges creeping above the windowsills. Next to the driveway stood a seven-foot-tall holly tree that gleamed beneath the warming sun. Cicadas droned.
In late August guys with 1-800-Got-Junk emptied the bungalow of its 1950s style furniture, trash bags, and so much more. The opened front door seemed to gasp. Blinds covered every window.
During walks on this street, I had spotted this white-haired owner sunning on her front porch, her cane perched next to her. We smiled. Other times, a younger woman guided her steps toward her waiting car, parked on the street. Neighbors took care of her grass, cleared snow from her sidewalk, and helped with groceries.
Her empty bungalow, like countless others, built in Brentwood as starter-homes for veterans returning from World War II, moved me. Did she pass on or was she placed in a nursing home? Whatever, she had let go of her textured life among us and took her history with her. Others, perhaps with toddlers, will create a home in her bungalow.
Such stories prod me to keep my stuff in good order, mindful of those who will clean up after me.
Last week a for-sale sign appeared on the sloping front yard of a brick bungalow, its overgrown hedges creeping above the windowsills. Next to the driveway stood a seven-foot-tall holly tree that gleamed beneath the warming sun. Cicadas droned.
In late August guys with 1-800-Got-Junk emptied the bungalow of its 1950s style furniture, trash bags, and so much more. The opened front door seemed to gasp. Blinds covered every window.
During walks on this street, I had spotted this white-haired owner sunning on her front porch, her cane perched next to her. We smiled. Other times, a younger woman guided her steps toward her waiting car, parked on the street. Neighbors took care of her grass, cleared snow from her sidewalk, and helped with groceries.
Her empty bungalow, like countless others, built in Brentwood as starter-homes for veterans returning from World War II, moved me. Did she pass on or was she placed in a nursing home? Whatever, she had let go of her textured life among us and took her history with her. Others, perhaps with toddlers, will create a home in her bungalow.
Such stories prod me to keep my stuff in good order, mindful of those who will clean up after me.
Heart Whisperings 