You Can Go Home Again

Since I’m a weekend reporter, it would stand to reason I would have to visit a church service every once in a while.

In fact, over the past two months I have attended six services in various local churches. I’m not saying that’s a record or anything, but I made it in and out and didn’t burst into flames or the roof didn’t cave in and I lived to write about it.

Yay me.

Back during my first time here at the R-A in 2005 the managing editor had me attending a different church service every week then I’d have to write a spotlight article similar with what I do for veterans now.

I’d have to attend the service then write an article. My goal was always to have people read an article and say, “yeah that’s the way it went down, I was there.” In fact, that’s the goal for anything I write.

The one thing about covering a church service is I want to be as respectful, reverent, and as least intrusive as possible. Usually before the service I’ll catch the pastor and tell him, or her, that I’m there and I’ll be taking pictures and doing some moving around.

And I try to stay for the whole service. Sometimes due to other stories I have to cover that’s not always the case.

And I feel bad about that because it seems almost like I’m not giving God my full attention. Jesus came and hung on the cross for a great length of time for me, I should be able to spare him an hour of my undivided attention.

I’ve written about how Mercer County treats you like family and after every service I attend I’m invited back join them the next week.

Unfortunately, Sundays are my prime writing time for what I attended on Saturday. This might sound corny, but it’s kind of my way of worshipping the Lord.

Even though I fought it for years, my ability to write is a God-given talent and by sharing it with everybody that’s kind of my way of giving the glory to him.

I once told a minister that I let God take over the keyboard and that’s how I get the story finished. He called it a repressed gift. I’ll buy that.

Even though I don’t always live up to it, I believe in God and the goodness around me. I’m a blessed man.

When I went through my spinal abscess 11 years ago I was told they lost me on the table. While I don’t have any profound memories about the great white light, my wife, Anna, told me I talked about my vision of the hereafter when I first woke up.

When the doctor told me I was a lucky man, Anna interjected, “No, he’s blessed.”

In fact, blessed has replaced lucky in the vocabulary in our home. Another mantra we subscribe to is, “Faith not Fear.”

Which reminds me of an Army story. In basic training the drill sergeants drilled into us that there aren’t any Atheists in foxholes. That got me thinking because if you didn’t give a religion when they make your identification tags, dog tags, they put “No Preference” on them.

Being an infantryman I realized I was in a very dangerous job. And as a big person I realize I’m a big target, my chances of getting hit in combat were higher than the regular sized guys.  I actually lost sleep over the No Preference tag.

My reasoning was if I got hit I didn’t want to have to explain to Jesus why I didn’t prefer him. The cure for that was I claimed I lost my tags and needed new ones.

This time I told the guy making them I was Catholic. And please, I mean no disrespect to anyone when I did this. But in my 18-year-old mind the decision to pick a team was a sound one.

It was my understanding if you’re Catholic a priest will come right on the battlefield and speak over you. This gave me comfort and one less thing to worry about. I could go to sleep at night knowing I was covered with the Big Guy.

Over the past six weeks I’ve attended services at St. Mikes, Holy Trinity’s Blessing of the Beasts, St. Johns 185th anniversary, First Presbyterian and a Thanksgiving dinner at the Atlantic Community Church.

The Atlantic Community Church was the church I grew up in and it was kind of like a homecoming for me.

At the dinner I sat with people who knew me growing up. And they’ll admit it.

I sat across from Arden and Joyce McConnell. Arden sat on the board of review for my Eagle Scout and I was a student assistant to Joyce during Vacation Bible School.

At the other end of the table were Jimmy and Kathy Bradley. Jimmy worked with my dad and Kathy cut my hair for my senior picture. She was surprised to find out who I was because I’d gone gray.

Janice and Fred Williams were on the other side. I rode the bus with Janice’s daughters and was on the wrestling team with Fred’s boy Jeff. I was in Boy Scouts with his older son, Fred.

I sat next to Virginia Shields. Virginia was a long-time post master in Atlantic. At the next table over was John and Esther Harrison. I played football at Conneaut Lake High School with John. I graduated with Esther’s brother, John Shrock.

Pastor Harold Walton wasn’t there when I attended as a kid. Pastor Charles Polley was the shepherd of the flock then. But Pastor Walton knows my history and I was welcomed back, but not as a prodigal son, which I am, but as a member of the community.

While there are many mistakes I have made in my life I guess I’m a poster child for any sin can be forgiven. And I see it on a daily basis in my life. A few years ago I would have said I was a lucky man to have the life I do.

But I know better now.