Prince of Peace
A month or so ago I was visiting Milwaukee, and felt compelled to drive by our old family Church. Not sure why, but it had been on my mind in the weeks leading up to my trip. It is the Church we grew up in, but I’m not going to pretend it harkens joyful memories. The old pastor was a bit of a curmudgeon; a fire and brimstone sort of preacher, so it kind of turned me off Church for many years. I dreaded Sunday School, vacation Bible School; anything to do with Church. Dad never went, and as we boys got older, it became harder and harder to get us to go, and I suppose eventually Mom just gave up.
This is the place I think I was married, it is the place where we put my Father, Mother, and a wife to rest. I think I was married in this Church twice. I say “I think” because when I showed this sketch to my sister-in-law she said she did not remember my second wedding happening there. Perhaps she is right, I’ve since destroyed all of my old photos (there’s a long story there, I’ll save that for later), so I don’t know. I do know that when my second wife Diane was dying of cancer, the new (younger) Pastor would come frequently to our house and later the hospital to visit with her, and would come to the house to visit with me. And he was very kind and supportive after she passed away. The funeral service was at Prince of Peace. That all meant something to me, and when my Mom could no longer drive I would take her to Church and out for breakfast on Sunday mornings when I was in town. After she passed away, I sort of bounced around and fell away again.
After Cindy died I’m back at Church here in Billings. It’s a small Church, and I am involved enough to feel a part of it. If someone told me 3 years ago that I would be participating in formal religion, I would have thought them crazy. I guess at first I was looking for answers. I suppose deep down I know there are none. Had they told me that there was a reason for all the shit that happens in this world, I would not have believed it anyway, I’d have walked away and never looked back. Maybe I wasn’t looking for an answer, but looking for some comfort in its absence.
Something brought me to this old Milwaukee Church on that cloudy spring day. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Was it even still there or had it been torn down from disuse and turned into a shopping center? Would it have been remodeled and unrecognizable as so many parts of an old hometown are when visiting years later? But when I drove by, it seemed completely unchanged. In fact, it seems to have weathered the years better than I have; it does after all look pretty much the same as it did so many memories ago. I can’t say the same.
For some reason I’m glad it is still standing. I sat in my car on a cold and rainy day, across the street and sketched this building, and reflected on our shared history. I wanted to go inside and sit on the hard wooden pews of my youth, see the hymnals and bible in the racks attached to the backs of the pews. See the wooden cross by the altar. And what? Maybe pray, maybe cry, maybe just sit and think?
But the parking lot was empty and the doors were locked.
And that might have been for the best.
