We never know how long it will last. Do we? No. Not really. We hope. We pray. We wish.
A painting. A song. A story. A scrap of ribbon.
The United Methodist church wasn’t always the United Methodist Church.
The Methodist Church and the Evangelical United Brethren Church joined hands in 1968 and the modern-day United Methodist Church was born.
Cool.
The United Methodist Hymnal was finally published in 1989.
I’ve spent many hours (more specifically, sermons) exploring the pages of the United Methodist Hymnal.
I am especially fond of “John Wesley’s Rules For Singing,” printed in the front of the hymnal. It should be required reading for all musicians and every member of the congregation. Good stuff.
The hymnals at Maple Springs were dark blue. I thought that was how they came. I didn’t know there were options.
I later learned hymnals can be ordered in almost any color. Hard-back. Soft-back. Leather-bound. Large print. Loose leaf. There is probably a digital version by now. However you want it or need it, you can get it.
Fine. I’m eternally partial to the dark blue, but that is hardly the point.
The Maple Springs congregation used the hymnals a lot. A lot. Readings. Responses. Hymns. Baptisms. Communion. Funerals. Whatever we needed, just like Prego spaghetti sauce, it was in there.
For the prepared or the easily confused or the excessively organized, the increased hymnal usage necessitated the presence of multiple bookmarks. Paper clips. Strips of paper. Sticky notes. At least that’s the way it was in the choir room.
The ever-mounting pile of marks and clips and strips and notes finally got the best of my mother.
We headed to Piece Goods. For those of you that didn’t spend a significant portion of your childhood among bolts of cloth and pattern books, Piece Goods was the local fabric store.
I knew it all too well.
My mama and my Nannie traipsing around Piece Goods looking for “something” that would work.
“Jeffrey, get 25 yards of each one.”
“25 yards? What are we gonna do with 125 yards of ribbon?”
She handed me five gigantic spools of grosgrain ribbon. One each of red, gold, purple, white and green.
I could feel the rest of my Saturday slipping away.
“It’s the liturgical colors. We’re going to make bookmarks for the choir. I’m tired of seeing paperclips.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Gold isn’t liturgical.”
“Well, it looks good and I like it. Get the ribbon.”
I was less than happy. Another Saturday at church. Yippie.
Nannie found the right thread. Mama got some kind of heavy-duty-to-this-day-I-don’t-know-what-it-is material and we headed down Reynolda Road to our home away from home.
I helped cut the ribbon. They measured and sewed and argued with the sewing machine. It was similar to a lot of Saturdays at the Pumpkin Church.
That was 1990.
This week, I was asked to return to my home church and sing HOW GREAT THOU ART in a celebration of life service for Catherine Collins.
I don’t particularly like singing at funerals. It’s hard. Emotionally, I have to remove myself from the moment. Everything in me wants to politely decline and magically become unavailable.
Terry Hicks taught me an invaluable life lesson.
“You can turn down an invitation to sing at a wedding. That’s fine. It’s probably a year away, anyhow. But, funerals are different. That family is hurting and they need you. You don’t ever get to turn down a funeral. You go and you sing. That’s how it is.”
He’s right, but I don’t like it. Anything but a funeral.
Nonetheless, the Collins family asked and I said, “yes. Of course. I’ll be there.”
Dennis played the organ while I tried to get my thoughts and my breathing under control. Easier said than done.
I didn’t have a hymnal and there were two congregational hymns listed in the bulletin.
I reached to a chair on the second row and grabbed an all-too-familiar-dark-blue United Methodist Hymnal.
I was tempted to stop and read the “Rules For Singing,” but, I had other things to do.
I opened the hymnal and placed it to rest on the seat to my left. Something looked different. It couldn’t be.
A worn, homemade five-ribbon bookmark with frayed edges fell from the pages.
How long will it last? 32 years?
We pray. We hope. We wish.
I guess that Saturday trip to Piece Goods was worth it.
Jeffrey Griffin 