The First Week

So far, Wilmington is even better than I imagined. Perhaps next week when the closing of the Greenville house finally takes place, and I pray it will, I will begin my new blog about being back at home in this sunny little Southern city near the Atlantic Ocean. But for today, I will just tell you about returning to the church of my early childhood. It is First Baptist with the tall copper steeple that still reaches to the sky and the ancient doors where we greeted Mr. Gregory before leaving for home at noon. Probably my daddy had something funny to say to him.  For decades I have wanted to sit inside that church again, to revisit that part of my life, to see the massive pipe organ, to walk through those doors. I was not disappointed. Although it seemed smaller now that I am bigger, it was not so different from my memory, and I felt gratitude for the ones who maintained its architectural and historical integrity. The first hymn of the morning was the old favorite Holy, Holy, Holy. I thought how the first time I probably ever heard it was right there, sitting between my mommy and daddy, listening to them sing. I was a squirmy child during sermons though, but  my daddy wisely kept me quietly occupied by playing with my fingers and letting me twist and tug his. When today's service was over, I waited by the big, dark doors to greet the current pastor, a really nice fellow. I told him how I went there when I was a child, and I felt quite small as the words came out.