Yesterday, my little country church didn’t disappoint. Rising extra early, my routine changed a bit as I selected an outfit appropriate for church after washing and drying my hair, which is getting longer every day. As it does, I look forward to the day I have 12″ to donate to “Locks Of Love”. Cancer affects so many parts of life, including hair loss. This is most distressing to kids. I’m blessed with thick straight hair that grows quickly. It will be my pleasure to donate it when it’s long enough. Until then, I’m enjoying long hair once more in my life.
A Hawaiian print dress in black and white, with black flats and a light sweater were the perfect outfit, and out the door I went. Bible study was scheduled at 9:30, but in their excitement, the group started a little earlier than that. By the time I arrived, almost 20 sat around the table. The book chosen for study is entitled “Who Am I In Christ” by Neil T. Anderson. For an hour, we discussed Chapters 2 and 3, and I learned a lot about the people in the group.
Diverse and intelligent, everyone was respectful, listening to each other intently. They followed along as the leader read the text, stopping for our input. It was through the group that I learned there was another teacher present.
Later in the morning, she joined me in the chapel as we waited for the main service to begin. Teachers have a way of finding each other. Special needs teachers even more so. We have our teacherly ways of dressing, standing, and speaking. Not that we try to be this way, we just are.
This teacher wasn’t just a teacher of one grade or level. Through the years, she taught Kindergarten through 12th grade, just like me. She talked about her at-risk students and things she did to help them learn to read. While we talked, I realized we have much in common as educators, both leaving the profession because teaching changed into something foreign and unpleasant. It was she that asked for my phone number first. Exchanging numbers was like an exchange of life lines. She lives on the other side of town, and it seems we are similar in age. We plan to have coffee soon.
During the morning, other friends I’ve made during Bible Study and actual services came to give me a hug and say Hello. The music is becoming more familiar. The rhythm of the service comforting. Quiet time in which to pray faithfully is different in this tiny little chapel. So very still, you can feel the presence of God.
One of the most precious things about the chapel ties it to the region. Near my town, there is a mysterious lake, massive and wild. I’ve only heard tales about giant wind storms creating waves as big as the ocean’s. The lake is on an Indian Reservation, complete with folk lore and spirits. I’ve been warned more than once to not ever go out on this lake, and not knowing anyone on the reservation, that chance will never come to me. It’s a beautiful and mystical place which glows in colors only seen in paintings. It’s represented in this little church.
The chapel interior, rectangular om shape, holds red cloth covered chairs aligned in rows. The front of the chapel is raised two steps worth, leading to a stage. On this stage, the musicians of the congregation play songs with a piano, guitar, tambourine, and drums. The words of the songs are displayed on screens on either side of the stage. The Pastor delivers verses and messages from his podium. It’s the middle of the stage that’s so gorgeous.
There’s a false wall with a window in the center. Through the window is a most serene mural of the mystic lake. It’s as if the lake is within our view as we worship. It’s beautiful in every way. But especially, because it is a painting made of love. Recognizable as the the nearby lake, but also as a painting done by members of the church with patience and skill. It’s truly lovely.
Everything about the morning visit left me glad that I took time out of my day to go. My father always said he found his week by sitting with God Sunday morning. This morning, I found that to be an inspiration. This week, I’ll need God’s help to guide me through.
Today I return to Virginia City to meet with a Masonic Brother to make very sad decisions. The last time I saw this man was almost one year ago on July 15th, 2020 in my back yard at Winterpast. There, he helped eulogize VST as only a Masonic Brother could. Today, he’ll help me choose a spot to memorialize VST in the cemetery.
A fitting tribute to represent my “bionic cowboy” in the little town that chose us. A larger than life guy that walked four miles a day in cumbersome knee braces, cane, and his trademark Stetson. People might not have know his name, but, they all knew the inspirational Bionic Cowboy that roamed C Street.
The sights, sounds, and smells of Virginia City jar me in unpleasant ways when I return. Haunted by the happiest of times, the Red Dog Saloon is no longer the inviting place to eat pizza while listening to live jazz. The Bucket of Blood with its long bar leading to the window with the 150 mile view. The Roasting House for a quick cup of fresh brew. Mark Twain’s Saloon, where we went out in the snow for a late night date. The Silver Queen with Clint and Ila on the night they found they would become three instead of two. Then, with a glance upwards, adorning A Street like a magnificent jewel, The DunMovin House, where love created a home just for us even if only for the smallest window of time. All painfully difficult to revisit without VST’s shared memories of what it this hometown meant to us.
The spot must be just right. A place for VST’s headstone to remind people he lived there. That he was a wonderful Doctor of Psychology, Mason, and Knight Templar. A man among men. That he loved farming and ice cream. That he skipped to the heavens from atop Mt. Davidson, while I needed to move on. A place for me to remember he’s no more there in spirit than I’ll be when my time comes. VST found his rewards in heaven.
Pray for those that have gone before us. Pray for us as we make our way towards our own eternity.