Stories From The Pews

The wind picked up small bunches of leaves, twirling them around and depositing little piles of “fall” in random locations around the church grounds. The air was changing from the occasional waft of humidity to the cool, often wild breeze associated with Fall. Mr. Marty, the church groundskeeper, puttered around the church, raking leaves here and there, pushing rocks back onto the path from their grassy hiding places, and watering the remnants of summer’s once overflowing flowerpots.

Mr. Marty was affectionately known as the church relic. He had been a part of the congregation for over 70 years, 82 if you count his first visit when he was just a week old and fresh out of the dresser drawer. He was faithful, and his service often went unnoticed. Marty rested his rake against the stone walls of the church. Pulling a red handkerchief from his front overalls pocket, he wiped a small bead of sweat from his face. His body was getting old, but his heart still desired to serve. He had lived a difficult life, challenging in ways others may not know, but he was here now, at his little church, doing what he could to be a blessing to the congregation and the struggling young preacher.

Marty stood up straight and gave a groan as he reached for the rake again. This church had seen many preachers come and go over its 120-year life; some died, some just walked away. Life and ministry weren’t easy in this small rural Virginia country church. People didn’t have much money, and neither did the pastor. But this new preacher, well, he was working hard. He had two jobs and somehow still managed to preach on Sunday morning. He often preached in his work clothes, leaving right after service to work at the local lumber mill. Marty moved around 200-year-old headstones that were there before the church was built and wound his way gently to the front of the church. Over the years, many church members and individuals from the community passed away and were buried in the cemetery. As the church was built, the cemetery just kept growing and soon was on all sides of the church. There was a path from the front doors of the church to the sidewalk, but the old gravestones seemed to move closer every year. Two large oak trees stood on either side of the church; they had to be well over 200 years old each. Their roots had long wrapped themselves around the base of many of the gravestones and pushed up sidewalk concrete near the road. It was a slice of peaceful heaven that Marty grew to love and cherish. He placed the rake down near the steps of the church and grabbed an old, worn-out broom that had been patiently waiting, leaned up on the iron handrailing. Just as he was walking up the steps with his broom in tow, he heard a car door slam. He slowly turned around and leaned on the broom handle, resting his hands on the top. He stared down the path to see a young, well-dressed man walking towards him. The young man glanced at the tombstones that stood as a silent record of the church; he seemed to be annoyed that there was no separation between life and death. It just all happened together. He stopped when he came to the church steps. Marty looked down on him from the porch.

“How can I help you, young man?” Marty leaned forward on the broom. The young man stopped short of the porch steps; looking up at Marty, he straightened his tie.

“My name is Richard Jordan. I am looking for the pastor of this... church building.” He was overly assertive with his name, but it seemed difficult for him to say the word “church.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll give him a call.” Marty dropped one hand from the broom and bowed his head some. He knew what this meant. The town had suffered in the past 4 or 5 years, and everything was down. The attendance at church, the jobs were slim, and some people were just moving away, unable to pay a mortgage. The town was run down, and so were people’s hopes. The church hadn’t been able to pay property taxes for 2 years; consequently, the property and the church building were in foreclosure. The only reason the lights stayed on was because the local power plant was run by the son of the former preacher.

Then in June of this year, a multimillion-dollar corporation bought the property and about 50 acres around the church to build a plant. The town sure did need the jobs, but losing the church was difficult for the people. The new boss wanted to make it into his office and possibly convert the church to include small apartments on the inside for his visiting friends. People were disgusted by this, but they needed to eat, and so the inevitable was about to happen.

Marty pretended to dial the pastor’s number, let it ring, then hung up the phone. He looked over at Mr. Jordan.

“I’ll, I’ll text him. He works two other jobs, and sometimes he just can’t answer the phone.”

Mr. Richard Jordan didn’t seem very happy about this. He turned around and looked back at his car.

“Uh, Mr. Jordan, why don’t you come inside. I’m sure the pastor will answer and come just as soon as he can.” Marty motioned to him, but Richard was reluctant to take a step. “Come on, I promise you won’t go up in flames or anything.” Richard Jordan smirked and slowly walked up the steps.

Marty swung open both of the heavy wooden doors. They were arched in a beautiful medieval style and creaked open to reveal the church in all of its beauty. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Jordan gingerly crossing the threshold and looking up wide-eyed to the amazing vaulted ceiling. It was not a rich church in the worldly sense of gold, silver, and ornate tapestries like many older churches. This was a simple church filled with the beauty of ordinary things. Rafters made from 300-year-old oak trees lined the ceiling; stained glass, not from Tiffany’s but from a local craftsman, allowed multicolored light to spill into the church and fill every corner with warm, welcoming light.

“Beautiful,” he whispered to himself.

Marty heard Mr. Jordan comment to himself. Following it up with a hearty, “Yes it is! It sure is.” He stretched his back, standing up straighter, and looked up at the ribbons of light streaming out from the windows. “120 years old and counting.” Marty slid into the 3rd pew from the back. The old wood was smooth, worn, and creaked under his weight. He ran his wrinkled and rough hands over the pew and smiled. “You know… this whole church was built by the people who lived here. All the local artisans that wouldn’t be much of anything to the elite in New York or Chicago used their talents to make this a work of art.” Marty leaned back on the pew and looked over at Mr. Jordan, who was still standing in the middle of the aisle. He motioned to Mr. Jordan to sit next to him on the pew. Reluctantly, he sat.

Mr. Jordan sighed heavily, straightening his jacket; he stared ahead at the small podium near the front of the church. The church had a bell tower, but it hadn’t rung in years.

Marty’s phone buzzed in his pocket; sure it was the preacher, but he ignored it. He reached over and grabbed a hymnal from the back of the pew. He ran his hand over the front, tracing the embossed letters; the gold had rubbed off long ago. He held the hymnal up and smiled.

“See this little mark right here on the top edge?” Marty pointed to a very distinct set of teeth marks on the book. Mr. Jordan looked over at it with a touch of disdain but also curiosity. Marty continued. “That little bit right there, yeah, that was Martha Benton’s little boy, cutting his teeth. He was born sick, real sick, and of course, the first Sunday he came to church after a long hospital stay, we met them at the door with a few toys for him and a bunch of handpicked flowers for her.” Marty laughed a little, thinking of that sweet little boy and his mom’s first Sunday back to church since he was born. But, slowly, Marty dropped his head and placed the hymnal back in the pew. “Martha’s little boy passed away about two years later. He’s buried in the back of the church under the little oak tree. Martha planted that tree. It’s been about 15 years since.”

Mr. Jordan seemed a bit uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. “Building a plant here will help the job situation. I have visited a few times on Main Street, and I see how people are in need.”

“Yes, there are many needs here. And we could talk for hours on physical needs. But there are many different types of needs, and not all are physical.”

A silence fell between them, and they sat still for a moment before Marty pointed to a pew near the front of the church.

“That is where Sarah Hopkins sat. She was about 12 years old at the time when she glanced over to the other side of the church and saw Martin Thompson sitting by himself. Martin was rough, coming from a poor family whose father beat him regularly and a mother who worked hard but never could make enough for a new pair of shoes. They locked eyes with each other, and that was it!” Marty let out a wonderful, happy laugh, remembering the day. His laughter faded into a smile, and he dropped his head once again. “But that was the 50s, and well, Sarah was a white girl, and white girls and black boys did not date or marry. But that didn’t stop us. We became the best of friends, and aside from a few gossips in the church, the congregation supported our friendship, our dating, and eventual marriage. The pastor defied all convention and married us in a quiet little ceremony almost 60 years ago now.”

Mr. Jordan leaned in closer, shifting in his seat to look at Marty while he spoke.

“Sarah passed away about a year ago now. My beautiful Sarah is buried out near Martha’s little boy.” Marty’s voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Jordan said quietly.

Marty pushed back tears and continued with his storytelling. “Right there!” he pointed toward the middle stained glass window. “Right there. The hat ladies.” Marty laughed out loud and slapped his knee. “They were the funniest group of ladies I ever knew. When hats went out of style for ladies, they still wore them. Mother and daughter, and they were quite the pair. They prayed, oh how they prayed, for everyone. I honestly don’t remember their actual names because we just always called them the hat ladies, and everyone knew who they were. They kept this church going with nothing but prayer through all the downturn and economic issues. I wish they were here now.”

Mr. Jordan was becoming more involved in the history. “Where did they go?”

“Well, the daughter died first. No one really knew why or what from. Her son came from up north and took her back home to be buried in the family plots. The mom was never the same. She passed away soon after, and the grandson came once again to take her back to be buried.” Marty took a moment to remember, then pressed on with his stories.

“Over there, Sarah found out she was pregnant with our first child; over there, Samantha Hill got engaged. Right there!” Marty pointed to the top rafter just over the podium. “Right there hung a huge sheet fastened down on all sides to make it really tight. Back there, just below the bell tower entrance, someone rigged up a stand for a movie camera. It was 1932, and the local prison asked if they could bring some of the ‘good’ prisoners down to watch a few animated shorts. Those men laughed and laughed. It was pure joy from all accounts of those who were there. Many of those men came back to visit or attend the church here once out.” Marty turned to face Mr. Jordan. “You see, there are countless stories of love, loss, and hope right here, stories coming from these pews.” Marty pointed his old bony finger down on the pew and tapped it firmly. “People have lived, died, and experienced true and lasting hope. You see, Mr. Jordan, I know why you are here, and I know what you plan to do with this building.”

Richard Jordan shifted in his seat, forgetting about his 1,000-dollar linen suit; he leaned forward, wrinkling the jacket, head down. Marty continued.

“You have every right to tear this old church down or make it into a home or whatever you desire, but the people in this town, they don’t just need jobs, they need hope to stay. They need their memories.”

“It is my understanding that the property was foreclosed and sold at auction because the taxes hadn’t been paid in two years. That is pretty standard operation to foreclose and sell a piece of land, home, or business due to not paying the taxes.” Mr. Jordan sat up, straightening his suit. Marty continued to look him dead in the eyes. He continued. “I bought this church not because I wanted a church but because it was part of the land that we needed for the plant. I did intend to make it into a home or apartments for when I was in town for work.” Marty hung his head and turned back around to face the front of the church, desperately trying to remember all the pieces of the church exactly the way they were in this moment. “But,” Mr. Jordan began, “I understand that not all needs are physical or financial.” He stood abruptly and buttoned his suit coat. Marty slowly rose from his seat in the pew, struggling to straighten up after sitting for so long. Mr. Jordan had already turned and was walking out the front doors of the church. Marty made it to the front door in time to see him take one final look at the church, then close the door of his car and speed off. The wind suddenly felt colder than it had just an hour before. Marty pulled his button-up flannel shirt tighter across his chest. He watched the trail of dust following Mr. Jordan’s car and missed the pastor running up the sidewalk.

“Marty! Marty!” the pastor yelled as he got closer. “Did I miss him?” He was gasping for air, having run the half a mile from the bakery in town at full speed. He stopped short of the steps to the church and leaned over with his hands on his knees.

“Yes, pastor,” Marty said quietly. “You missed him.”

Life continued on as usual; that Sunday, the pastor preached in his work clothes, but the air was heavy with sadness. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Monday rolled around like clockwork, and Marty went back to raking leaves and sweeping around the churchyard. About halfway through his usual work, the mailman pulled up.

“Hey!” the mailman yelled, while waving a manila envelope at Marty. “Marty, come on over.” It was the kind of town where everyone knew each other, and there were no secrets. Not even the mail was sacred. Marty picked up the pace and walked out the gate to the small white postal truck. The mailman handed him the envelope, then continued on his route.

Marty turned the envelope over and read who it was from: Jordan Enterprises Inc. Marty didn’t care who it was addressed to and quickly opened it. He hurriedly pulled out a stack of papers and thumbed through them. A receipt for a tax bill. The receipt had a note at the top for Marty: “Thanks for the talk, Marty.” At the bottom were the words “paid in full.” Mr. Jordan had paid all the back taxes and turned the church back over to the congregation. The rest of the package was about the church building itself. Marty had told Mr. Jordan enough historical stories that he went home, spoke to his lawyers, and they had the building listed on the historical registry. The church was now a historical landmark and, as such, could not be torn down or given another use without extensive amounts of money and paperwork. The church would continue as a valued part of the town, the county, and the people who had attended for generations.

Marty held the package close to his chest. “Thank you, Lord.” He quietly walked back to the church building, intending to finish his day of work.