Grandpa's Church

It was unlocked, unused, with the appearance of abandonment after years of emptiness, but it was my grandfather’s church. He was the only one who opened its creaky doors to worship, pray or sing there in his old man’s gravely voice, some times with tears streaming down his cheeks. The old church was about a quarter of a mile up the dusty gravel road from our farm, and Grandpa would trudge up the road with three of us, Rosie, Janie and me, Barbie, his granddaughters trailing after him. It was a solemn little parade. I suppose we could have been a bother to him, but Grandpa considered it an honor. It was his joy to take us to church with him. We usually went at sun set and as we entered Grandpa’s hallowed ground he would remind us in deep reverence, “A church is not dead if it has only one worshiper. This is God’s house, and He is here with us. We will show respect.”
We obediently sat on the dusty pews and listened to the golden quietness as grandpa
read the Bible and prayed . Rosie, my older sister by fife-teen months, learned how to play the old pump organ. It wheezed out as much dust as it did music, but by its fragile notes grandpa patiently taught us the ancient hymns of his youth. We sang with all our hearts. Sometimes I think the angelss sang with us.
The sermon could be a few words of Grandpa’s, but often he would urge us on. “Stand up front girls and tell us about Jesus. One by one we would say our very few words, but they were just right Grandpa would say.
Grandpa was right. God was there in that wonderful old church. There in the witness of an old man’s faith, three little girls met Jesus.
There must have been a sad story concerning the empty church, but I never asked. I was only seven. I have been told that the small piece of land it occupied along with the cemetery next to it had been donated to the church by my great grandfather.
Now, some seventy years later, the little church has been painted and a small congregation worships there faithfully every week.
Grandpa would like that