December 3rd, Advent Day 07
Advent was coming, and we at Emmanuel wanted something for the children as they impatiently and excitedly waited for Christmas. We wanted Advent to be more than counting the days until Christmas morn and presents.
Our then choirmaster and organist, Johnny Bradburn, and I, their deacon, began having a short and sweet service in the chapel in the early evening once a week. We lit the appropriate candles, had prayers, and sang a few Advent songs. No sermon.
Johnny taught us the Phos Hilaron (O Gracious Light). The children’s choir sang something special. Father Hank had loaned me a little book that he had bought in England: “The Promise of His Glory” for the season from All Saints to Candlemas. At first, we had plenty of room in the chapel, but as the word got around, we had to add more chairs and even had some visitors sit on the kneelers around the altar. After the first year, our parish administrator, Sue Kjellson, said that we should have the last service before Christmas Eve in a barn. Lucky us, Colin and Kate Greene loaned us their barn with three or four horses and bales of hay. It was cold in those days, and we added another treat-- soup and bread in their house. Our crowds increased, but woe be unto us, Colin, an Army doctor, was transferred.
Here’s where God stepped in. Skip and Melissa Johnstone had just moved from their house in Southern Pines to a farm nearby and said we could use their barn. Skip half-killed himself cleaning up the barn and hauling in bale after bale of hay for us to sit on. And bless Johnny Bradburn for he would bring the keyboard so we could have “real” music. By then we had a full house with parents and children. Our little service for the children turned out to be a favorite service for the entire church as we moved closer and closer to the Holy Day.
I had the privilege of serving as Emmanuel’s deacon for over 10 years. Some of the happiest days of my life were spent there and also some of the unhappiest days. Our Father Hank went skiing with Edie, his wife, two days after Ash Wednesday when I put the ashes on his forehead, and he put them on my forehead. Two days later he was dead with a massive heart attack on the slopes of White Grass, West Virginia. We were then a church in deep grief. But we leaned on each other, and with the help of Bishop Michael Curry and the love of Jesus Christ, who had been born over 2,000 years ago in a barn or a cave, we have again become a vibrant house of God.