Christmas Angels

Little White Church

Christmas

Angels

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            “Do you have a church home?” was the question.

            That was asked several times in my life. One was at Kingsburg and the answer was, “Yes, Concordia.” The first time I saw that beautiful old structure was before that little Fresno County Swedish community was even on our radar. I was coming from Cutler looking at stone fruit plantings and my route took me right past its front door at the four way stop at 18^th and Sierra.

            That was a church.

            Its red brick structure, stained glass windows, and white steeple against the backdrop of that quaint little town was striking. When we later moved our farming headquarters to Fresno County, we knew it was the place we wanted to call home. And, home it became. Russ Bolm was our pastor, and, in many ways, he will always be “my pastor”. He was so important at a critical time. We shared many things together. There was a church council tug-of-war regarding a new roof and the selection of a German product approved for historical restoration. When it was completed, we stood together knowing we were part of its continuing history.

Pastor guided us in so many ways aside from the pulpit where he sang the Gottesdienst rather than read “the little verses” before the congregational responses. He was supremely, musically talented.

            I was assisting him in communion one Sunday when I noticed the wafers he was about to serve were moving! Closer inspection revealed they were working alive with weevils. To his subtle annoyance I elbowed him, but, when he finally saw why I was trying to get his attention, he almost dropped the plate.

            “What do I do?!” he whispered to me.

            “Shake ‘em down,” I answered. “I’ll offer two servings of wine to anybody who complains.”

            Red faced like a little boy on a cold day at recess, he did. The “Body of Christ” had a fairly substantial infusion of protein that morning.

            “Five ‘Hail Marys’ and keep your fingers crossed,” I whispered to him as we there trying to look dignified awaiting the next draft of communicants.

As he stood there shaking the plate, he … elbowed me back.

            Christmas

            Ascension at the top of a hill in El Paso is becoming our church home.

            Pastor Bestian is the competent Bolm baton recipient. He grew up on a midwestern farm and understands when cattle on our neighbors or branding crews result in an empty space at the end of our adopted pew. That is certainly appreciated.

            This evening we intend to be there as we celebrate our dear Savior’s birth. We will sing the songs that have such profound and generational wonder and inspirational impact on our lives. Our hearts will be heavy in worldly dilemma, but there is no other place that seems more comforting than in that sanctuary overlooking the western end of a growing Del Norte.

            Christmas, it is!

            In 1985, President Reagan reminded a holiday audience that the “power of (his) love can lift our hearts and soothe our sorrows and heal our wounds and drive away our fears.” Those words are just as fresh and new this day as they were then. They are the same verbal phrasing that gave comfort to every generation that was offered the promise of His grace. This night will remind us of that grace if we open our hearts.

            Little White Church

            There stands a little white church alongside Highway 180 in the community of Cliff, New Mexico, though, that remains special in my memory. Over time, it has gone through several iterations of worshippers (the one I knew has moved southwest across the road to a beautiful location on top of a hill). Caretakers have come and gone, but the family histories that have footprints across its worn threshold remain vivid to those of us who first sang the hymns of Christmas in its sanctuary.

            If I have a church home of spiritual roots, it is there.

            Likewise, if there is a single person among all those who were there or who influenced me most in that setting, it must be Mary Jane Woodrow. Even as a little kid I recognized her patience and her kindness in the lessons and the stories she taught in Sunday school. Indeed, she lifted my heart and drove away fears.

            Of course, I don’t remember complicated lessons from that time, but I will suggest Mary Jane was fulfilling a mission that even she didn’t fully realize. When King David told the prophet, Nathan, he wanted to build a house for God, he got an answer that perhaps surprised him. “I have not dwelt in a house from the day I brought the Israelites up out of Egypt to this day,” God said.

            The house that He would eventually build would be through David rather than by David. The progression was first in a tent in that desert, then in a manger, and then in a tomb before glory and that “house” were completed. The day we celebrate as Christmas is a marker in that journey. It is ours to contemplate and to glorify in the house of our Lord wherever that might be.

            The names of Russ Bolm and Mary Jane Woodrow are angels in my past and often awkward, faltering journey in our Lord. As descendants of David, those two children of God occupy a special place in His house, and, so thankfully, in my being. Their presence in my heart is permanent.

            So, too, is God’s house at Concordia where today’s services will be musically crafted by dear friends. Ascension will also herald this sacred day of eternity. We will sing as one with the former as we participate in the latter.

            The one of my soul, though, is that little white church that remains in my heart and heritage home of Cliff … Amen.

                Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Merry Christmas.”