The little white United Church, on the cliff, in Harbourville, is entering an exciting new time. It is once again becoming a vibrant centre of activity for the surrounding communities.
It was with great relief that Mary and I went into the the bank in town, to sign the final papers releasing the church money, to a higher power.
I love that little church and the memories of those people, who gave it life.
Over one hundred and fifty years ago, many people got together to build a no nonsense, Methodist church. The church was not a physically impressive church. Its beauty was in its simplicity. Unlike so many other churches who joined others to become part of the United Church of Canada, in 1925, this church did not change its Methodist interior.
In time, the beautiful chandelier was converted from gas to electricity, the straight backed pews were painted and repainted, furniture was recovered and a bright red carpet was laid over some areas of the painted wood floor. Until the authorities said, "This can be no more.", the ancient oil burner rattled away heating the sanctuary on cold days.
There is no phone and for much of its history, no address. There is no plumbing. In times of great desperation, it was necessary to resort to the dilapidating outhouse, out behind.
Winter mice sometimes made their homes in among the large bibles and old, worn hymnaries.
On Christmas Eve, a small miracle took place each year. The simple church became magnificent. Candles, red ribbons, holly, evergreen boughs, wall hangings, a creche transformed the sanctuary.
Most importantly the church was full.
The church not only filled with light, but with music and the joy of the season. The house was full as in years gone by. Many a foot that had not crossed a church entrance, since the year before, came into the church. Many with individual individual faiths came to celebrate.
The United Church Women and theirs friends, who made up the Ladies Sewing Circle, through generations, kept the church alive, as the congregation dwindled. The local cottagers swelled the ranks in the summer. We "younger" women were happy to follow their lead, but when we became older, there was no one to lead.
The relentless laws of attrition took their toll. The church no longer plays a central part in many younger lives.
In winter the church workers dwindled from a few to two. Two is not a flock. We were not up to what was required.
A little task here, a little task there, some phoning here and there, some necessary practical decisions, some inevitable congregational decisions, requests to attend meetings, issues concerning insurance, finance, foundations, roof, services, ordinary upkeep inside and out, charge matters, became too much. We were not the people to make the big decisions and became overwhelmed by the time required for the little ones. The church needed a wider community.
How wonderful it was that others, with fresh new ideas and the skills and enthusiasm to accomplish much came forward, when we finally, determinably stepped back.
The little white church on the cliff has a new life, as it moves into the future. The church will remain into the future, whole and even holy.
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Thursday 27 March 2014
Friday 7 March 2014
Death of a Loved Matriarch
I live in the Brown's, green, house on the hill. People lived here before the Browns, and many, many, people have lived here since, but in this small community, it is the Brown name that has been affixed, to the place. It seems irrelevant that the house has been blue, for over twenty years.
I call this house home.
The little Brown girl, who grew up in this house, died last week. She was ninety-two years old. Jennie was born in a house, just up the road and it was there she lived most of her life, where she raised her family, entertained her many friends and family members, where her grand children visited and where she sat by her large living room window, watching the magnificent sunsets from the spot, with the best view in the village. Nevertheless, she had a special spot in her heart for this childhood house. It is here her father, her mother and her two bachelor brothers lived for many years. I have met many a man, whose hair as a boy, was cut regularly in my big, farm, kitchen years ago by one of these brothers.
With the exception of the last few years, when her house became too much for her, she lived in Harbourville and a proud Harbourvillian she was. Jennie's head was filled with so many stories of her school days here, the doings in the little white clapboard church on the cliff, and the workings in the harbour, she could see so well from her house. She loved the place.
Jennie never pretended to be anyone, but who she was. She was a decent human being, living a good life, in good times and bad. She led a fairly simple life, but their was nothing simple about Jennie. She knew so much about everyday living and much more. Her big heart and big brain knew much of the intricacies of living in the real world. She had more than enough common sense, that was eventually the foundation of wisdom.
There is sometimes, something demeaning about the word humble, so I won't use that word. I suspect Jennie was happy to be Jennie. Humility may be a better word. She did not push a sense of importance on anyone, who entered into her life.
An irrepressible twinkle in her eye, hinted at the rascal that dwelled within. There is no doubt Jennie was one of the well respected matriarchs of the community. Her opinions were often sought out and always respected. But Jennie's wit and thorough enjoyment of trickery opened others hearts to her. Sometimes I would be entangled in a scheme. I don't remember all the details, but I do remember delivering a beautiful valentine turnip to a local mailbox, one snowy Valentine day.
While I have lived here, Jennie's birthday on January 22, always involved powerful snowstorms. Her eightieth birthday was no exception. The roads were all closed, but those who could make it came on skis, snow shoes or the sheer determination of walking one foot in front of the other, through the deep snow to show up to surprise her.
A special happy, celebration took place in her warm house. A knock came on the door while we were drinking our tea and eating birthday cake. A neighbour, brought Jennie something he most prized, a significantly large bottle of booze. Jennie was delighted with the gift. When he had left, she set it on a table near the door. She declared that he would be back to get it at three o'clock in the morning and indeed he was.
Jennie was well loved and cared for by her family. I know she knew how much they cared. I am not so sure she knew how well respected and appreciated by the wider circles of her life.
Safe journey Jennie, I loved and miss you.
I call this house home.
The little Brown girl, who grew up in this house, died last week. She was ninety-two years old. Jennie was born in a house, just up the road and it was there she lived most of her life, where she raised her family, entertained her many friends and family members, where her grand children visited and where she sat by her large living room window, watching the magnificent sunsets from the spot, with the best view in the village. Nevertheless, she had a special spot in her heart for this childhood house. It is here her father, her mother and her two bachelor brothers lived for many years. I have met many a man, whose hair as a boy, was cut regularly in my big, farm, kitchen years ago by one of these brothers.
With the exception of the last few years, when her house became too much for her, she lived in Harbourville and a proud Harbourvillian she was. Jennie's head was filled with so many stories of her school days here, the doings in the little white clapboard church on the cliff, and the workings in the harbour, she could see so well from her house. She loved the place.
Jennie never pretended to be anyone, but who she was. She was a decent human being, living a good life, in good times and bad. She led a fairly simple life, but their was nothing simple about Jennie. She knew so much about everyday living and much more. Her big heart and big brain knew much of the intricacies of living in the real world. She had more than enough common sense, that was eventually the foundation of wisdom.
There is sometimes, something demeaning about the word humble, so I won't use that word. I suspect Jennie was happy to be Jennie. Humility may be a better word. She did not push a sense of importance on anyone, who entered into her life.
An irrepressible twinkle in her eye, hinted at the rascal that dwelled within. There is no doubt Jennie was one of the well respected matriarchs of the community. Her opinions were often sought out and always respected. But Jennie's wit and thorough enjoyment of trickery opened others hearts to her. Sometimes I would be entangled in a scheme. I don't remember all the details, but I do remember delivering a beautiful valentine turnip to a local mailbox, one snowy Valentine day.
While I have lived here, Jennie's birthday on January 22, always involved powerful snowstorms. Her eightieth birthday was no exception. The roads were all closed, but those who could make it came on skis, snow shoes or the sheer determination of walking one foot in front of the other, through the deep snow to show up to surprise her.
A special happy, celebration took place in her warm house. A knock came on the door while we were drinking our tea and eating birthday cake. A neighbour, brought Jennie something he most prized, a significantly large bottle of booze. Jennie was delighted with the gift. When he had left, she set it on a table near the door. She declared that he would be back to get it at three o'clock in the morning and indeed he was.
Jennie was well loved and cared for by her family. I know she knew how much they cared. I am not so sure she knew how well respected and appreciated by the wider circles of her life.
Safe journey Jennie, I loved and miss you.
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