After being so refreshed last weekend, I decided to go back to Green Mountain Falls for church this morning. I once again felt my spirit calm down as I turned off the highway onto the two lane road that led into town. The Gazebo sat picturesquely by the frozen pond. A couple of teenagers, one of whom was rebelling against small town life (I could tell by her attire), meandered down a dirt side street. The sun was warm on my shoulders as I walked toward the church.
The service opened to the sound of hand bells played by musicians donning blue and white choir robes. Save for one rather sour note, coming from a woman who was clearly nervous about missing her beat, the melody was beautiful. I listened to it from near the back, having chosen one of the pews that catches the sunlight from the stained glass windows.
During the children's sermon, the pastor was called upon to be a sort of human stand for an old felt board. As he did so, an elderly woman did her best to use cloth cut-outs to explain the transfiguration, and this to a bunch of tots who have no idea what the word transfigured even means. Apparently today is Transfiguration Sunday on the church calender. I don't come from a liturgical church, so it was news to me.
While the flannel board bonanza was going on, those of us in the back were treated to a three-year-old fellow who would wander courageously down the aisle, a little closer each time, only to change his mind just before reaching the front. Each time, after turning around, he would walk back toward his parents, shaking his head very seriously at those he passed, and announcing that he'd rather go to the grocery store.
Later, in the fellowship hall (which unfortunately lacked cake this time), I sipped that nasty substance we like to call church coffee and talked with the Pastor. He is a young man from Britain, who was as surprised to be called to Green Mountain Falls as one might be surprised to see him there. "They're a good group though," he told me. And, as is the nature of being from small town Colorado (I am from a different one), I ended up talking to some folks who know a guy I went to elementary school with, and who are related to my middle school music teacher. Small towns are all connected somehow, I suppose.
Driving away, not wanting to leave, I started thinking that I may need to make a habit of small town Sundays. When the weather warms up, take a picnic for the park across the street. Plop down at the local cafe. Buy a coke at the Market.
And hopefully, get another chance at some cake.