My town took it on the chin last night, with the announcement that one of the steel companies is closing, temporarily. It's a psychological blow to a community with a "steel city" identity (although recent years have seen that identity shift to other things).
I happened to be at the church last night. We've turned our sanctuary into a creative, artistic kind of place for Lent. Fabrics hanging - candles burning - guided 15-minute times of prayer on the screens - quiet music - sketchbooks and journals available. A drop-in space for anyone at all who wants some undisturbed time to personally pray.
So that's where I was. Technically to host, but with the luxury of being able to sit and quietly reflect as well.
And slowly the realization of where I was sitting impacted me. On antique wooden pews, in a 94-year-old building. Hardwood floors that have seen more shoes than I will ever see. Walls that have watched generation after generation pray, sing, take Communion, just like me. Generations that survived wars and the Great Depression, that had stories to tell of how God walked them through it. An ongoing community of faith that holds each other up, and endeavours to engage their world with extravagant grace and love, no matter what the headlines and the bank accounts say.
Our congregation is relatively new - less than 20 years old. But our history is already full of stories that we tell over and over again, remembering what God has done. And now our history is joined with a century of stories, in the building we just renovated. And then I remember that our history is joined with centuries of history, around the world.
There is no silly, naive sense of how perfectly blessed and trouble-free life is.
But there is a deeper trust that God is not unaware, and that he is near.
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By the way ... if you live near where I am, you are welcome to drop by to pray during Lent. Or ... if you live far ... there's a simpler version on our website. Click here for info.
