Exceeding the word count: Where that place used to be...

Although I’m no longer religious (at all; I’m an atheist now) a place that I will always hold dear to me is Kansas Christian Church, in Kansas, Illinois. I tell people that I was raised in that church, and it’s true; I spent many hours in that beautiful building, not only learning about the Bible but forming bonds with a community in a way I have since found very difficult in any other setting.

I started attending that church in 1983 when, at the age of 8, my mother, sisters and I moved from Virginia to Illinois to live with our grandmother. Our mother was dying, our dad was in no condition to take care of us, and that was what was decided. My grandfather had been the preacher there in the ‘60s; he died suddenly in 1970 but my grandmother stayed on and continued to live and worship there.

When I was young, my favorite church experience was a Wednesday after-school group called J.A.M. (Jesus and me) where we’d have games, snacks, and lessons that were fun. As I grew older, there were more serious times; Sunday school and small groups and Bible studies for teenagers wanting to get more serious about their faith. I also spent many Sundays volunteering in the nursery, helping take care of little ones so their parents could attend services. Sunday nights were middle and high school youth group, where I had not only a great group of friends, but also a youth pastor who was funny, talented, and more generous with his time and love than I even appreciated at the time.

The building itself was full of memories for me – not just the usual Sunday worship, but all the other events: potluck dinners in the basement, revivals, funerals, weddings – including my own first wedding. I can recall so many individual moments in that place, and in the tapestry of my adolescence, it features prominently.

A few years ago, the church burned nearly to the ground. The morning after it began, I was getting updates on Facebook throughout the day. I wept that day – a lot. Although it was no longer a place of belief for me, it was still a monument to how and where I grew up. And it was, within a matter of hours, gone. The beautiful stained glass windows - shattered. The sturdy brick I thought would last forever – crumbled. The plaque commemorating my grandfather’s service there – melted into oblivion.

I was back home recently and walked through the newly built church for the very first time since the old one was destroyed. I knew it would feel strange but I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that swept through me as my sister walked me through and showed me the gorgeous new building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I kept thinking, “This isn’t it.” I always said, when I was a believer, that it wasn’t the building that was the church; it was the people. And while that is still true, those bricks and windows and beautiful wooden pews and brass fittings meant something to me. And they are gone, for good – just like my faith was, long before the structure ceased to be.

In a way I am glad I live so far from home; I’m sure being there would make it difficult to be honest about who I am now; a non-believer. And it would be sad for me to be in that new church building from time to time as I know I would have to be, realizing I was standing in the same spot but in a completely different place. And so I will keep my memories and live in my present, grateful that I can keep them separate most of the time.

The church on my wedding day in 1995...