Memory Lane
As everyone is aware, there is a heat wave undulating across our great country. All the talk has centered around the record temperatures that have caused people to shake their thermometers and scratch their heads to make sure they are still in SoCal, where, it is like, totally 74 and sunny all year round. My only comment to that is, "Lie. Big lie."
The warm weather has brought on some rather fond memories, and they have been triggered primarily by one of my senses being assaulted by either temperature or sound, or in some cases, both temperature and sound. When we first moved here, I never heard crickets. Along with the absence of lightening bugs, the missing sound of crickets made me ache for home. Behold, this summer I have been hearing them at night, and they, along with the warm dampness of our summer nights, have lulled me back to nights on my grandmother's farm where the gentle chirping and the sound of the oscillating fan put you to sleep.
The other memory was more jarring. Our little church is not air conditioned (because it's 74 and sunny here) and the heat in the sanctuary was not from The Rev.'s fire and brimstone sermons (he doesn't preach those anyway, he is very conscientous of law and gospel). We have had the past two services in the fellowship hall, where it is air conditioned. I was able to attend the one yesterday, and when I stepped into the room, I was immediately transported back to 1981, when our little church in New Orleans, Lousiana, was worshipping in the parsonage garage. The set-up was exactly the same, and I half expected my mother to appear and take me to task for fidgeting on the folding chair.
I sometimes wish for those days again, and I am so thankful that I have those memories. Except for when I fidget on the folding chair and my mom takes me outside for a spanking.
The warm weather has brought on some rather fond memories, and they have been triggered primarily by one of my senses being assaulted by either temperature or sound, or in some cases, both temperature and sound. When we first moved here, I never heard crickets. Along with the absence of lightening bugs, the missing sound of crickets made me ache for home. Behold, this summer I have been hearing them at night, and they, along with the warm dampness of our summer nights, have lulled me back to nights on my grandmother's farm where the gentle chirping and the sound of the oscillating fan put you to sleep.
The other memory was more jarring. Our little church is not air conditioned (because it's 74 and sunny here) and the heat in the sanctuary was not from The Rev.'s fire and brimstone sermons (he doesn't preach those anyway, he is very conscientous of law and gospel). We have had the past two services in the fellowship hall, where it is air conditioned. I was able to attend the one yesterday, and when I stepped into the room, I was immediately transported back to 1981, when our little church in New Orleans, Lousiana, was worshipping in the parsonage garage. The set-up was exactly the same, and I half expected my mother to appear and take me to task for fidgeting on the folding chair.
I sometimes wish for those days again, and I am so thankful that I have those memories. Except for when I fidget on the folding chair and my mom takes me outside for a spanking.
posted by pastorschick at
6:17 PM
1 Comments:
That 'little church in New Orleans' will hold its first service in the newly reconstructed chapel on August 20th. to all who read these presens: Greetings. Keep these survivors in your prayers. What a testament to God's glory to have seen this Phoenix rise. Katrina has no power against the mighty moving army of God (sounds like action figures-maybe they ARE!)
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