Time marches on

PATHS

 

The little wooden church on the corner of Elmont and Second Ave. is on fire. Flames burn wildly through the front door. Smoke rises in the air, aims at the morning sun. Sweating firemen struggle to save the rear area of the church where the ancient cemetery has welcomed parish members for almost one hundred twenty five years. The rotting wooden crosses disappear first. I am mesmerized, believe I see ghosts flying up to heaven. Rising, rising. It takes hours to check and double check so that no hiding embers can start another conflagration someplace near-by.

 

Long time members of Michael's Missionary Church weep quietly or sob hysterically. I do neither. Already I begin to visualize a new heated, air-conditioned simple church rising from the ashes of hard and loving usage. Looking around I may be one of the few who doesn't enjoy the backward game and I am willing to lead my neighbors, my friends, forward.

 

Seven of us men and two women meet at Bill Bagley's house. The women are members in good standing of our former church and headed the Social Committee. There is much to discuss, the first being the clearing away of debris. Our funds are limited but are good enough to get the cleaning-up started. Unfortunately we are stopped at once by The American Insurance Co., newly named AICO. They will send a team to go carefully thru the debris, be sure arson had no hand in the fire before any payment is given to us. Our hands are tied as we wait thru all of hot July for an insurance check. It finally comes and we are dismayed that the payment is correct but is an insignificant pittance.

 

The main library downtown has been kind enough to let us hold our weekly committee meetings in their study room. The going is slow. We have decided to build our new church on the same lot where it has been  forever. There were some votes to change the name but those folks lost. Construction will be started in September, six months from today, we believe. It doesn't happen. My birthday does and I will be 85 on that date-- 12/24/14, a lucky number, right? Wrong. My heart flutters, it hurts, it dies.

 

I look down from a place so high, I can barely see our beloved church growing taller, stronger every week. Little children love the playground. There is a study hall. A beautiful altar rises several feet above the floor. I can hear the prayers read in three languages, see blacks and Asians talking to each other, praying to different gods, getting along well together.

 

The loss of Michael's Missionary church has been forgotten by almost every one except me. I am here in god's world, watching, remembering the flames, the extinction of the old church and am content where I am now.

 

A few old timers will be with me soon and we might play Gin.