I remember reading a poem, probably in high school, titled “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” This isn’t that. I don’t remember anything more than the title of that poem, honestly.

Instead, this is an elegy for a little country church.

When I had been wounded and the thought of being part of any church made me feel raw and angry, we decided to drive to Tusca. It was small and far enough away from the people we knew that we thought it might be different. Our first week there, a man in a Hawaiian shirt called all the kids to the front and gave a short children’s sermon. Someone else asked for prayer requests and prayed over them in the moment. I breathed deep; it was a place where people were seen and known.

Over the next decade, my children learned to read, proudly lining out the songs from the psalter. They became members and declared faith to be their own. They participated in the life of the church, reading scripture, helping with Sunday School, and becoming the “best friends” of our congregation’s little children.

Remember, though, that this is an elegy.

September 1st was our last day of formal worship as a particular congregation.

I know that it is time to move on. But I will miss the warm yellow walls that made even winter Sundays seem like summer. I will miss fellowship dinners and Greg’s Jello salad. And I will miss faces that have grown dear through years of prayer and shared joy and sorrow.

From teaching Cognitive Psychology for 20 years, I know how easy it is for us to forget. Our memories aren’t recordings that we can playback perfectly.  We need memorials.

Let this elegy be a memorial, then. Tusca, a little country church, was here. It was a reflection of God’s love. It mattered.