2994 Hawaiian Avenue.

I’m not sure what triggered it, but the other day I had this intense longing to go to my Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  The arrival into their driveway, the few steps you take up to the doorway, then after a good, loud knock (Grandpa definitely has some hearing problems), Grandma would greet us at the door with a huge smile across her face and wide open arms to hug each of us.  One, two, three, four girls… then Mom and Dad.

No doubt on this visit, like all the others, Grandma would have her apron on, covered in flour after just finishing the pie crust for chocolate pudding pie, my personal favorite.

The smell of Grandma and Grandpa’s house isn’t one you can replicate in a tiny candle called “Grandpa and Grandma’s house”, but if they did make a candle that smelled like their house, I most surely would have it.

The smells of dinner in the oven, pies baking, dusty books in the library, a collection of old coats from the 80’s in the closet, leather cowboy boots, laundry detergent, the dog and of course Grandpa’s aftershave and Grandma’s “Moonlit Path” lotion from Bath and Body Works.  All those smells together just make your troubles melt away as you step in the door.

Of course like any other visit, my sisters and I would either be fighting over who would use the computer, who would first play the keyboard or who would swing on the swing set built by my Grandpa outside.

Before too long, Mom gave us a look that so clearly communicated: “Remember to ask Grandma if she needs any help… OR ELSE!” and of course as the oldest, and most responsible, I was the only one to actually help.  But, whatever, I never minded because it usually meant I could sneak a little sample of dessert while no one was looking.

Dinners were memorable, and of course better than any weeknight meal we might have at home.  Grandpa always piled his food so high, and we could bet he would ask someone to “toss a roll” at some point during dinner.  So of course, we did.  Literally.

Peace.  Their home with all the smells, sounds, sights and memories makes me feel at peace, it still does.  Even today, seven years since my Grandfather’s death and almost almost three years since my Grandma’s death.

I can think of that home and be instantly transported to those treasured moments.

I miss them.  A lot.

Now, the home is unoccupied, owned by the bank.  I think.

One day I hope it will be filled with the laughter that so filled our family dinners, the tears that often streamed down my face when I sat in Grandpa’s empty chair needing advice from my Grandma and joy that will impact a new generation.

Nothing is meaningless.

Nothing is lost.

Hope remains.

I can’t wait to see Grandpa and Grandma again one day.  This time, in our TRUE home.

A weekend to remember.

This weekend is one of those weekends that will forever be etched into my memory; forever tucked away into my heart.

I was practically born in the nursery here at First Baptist Church of Medford, Oregon.  My story, as the stories of many others, is weaved into FBC, and our stories make the story of this church.  But the beauty of it all is that none of this is about us, it is all about Him.

My calling to ministry came at a young age, and a dream was born in the halls of my middle school as I began being a ministry leader at age 13.  This weekend I got a chance to look into the kind, yet more wrinkled eyes of my dear youth pastor from those years, and as I told him, “I think of you guys all the time”, he kindly smiled and said, “Meridith, I pray for you”.  Nothing else mattered at that moment.  It was humbling, and gave me strength.

This weekend FBC Celebrated 125 years of ministry, and it made me grateful for those who have gone before me, and paved the way, and gave me an even greater understanding of my place and calling here at First Baptist Church.

I had the honor of meeting Dr. Haddon Robinson, a former Associate Pastor of FBC in the 50’s, and he later went on to be a Professor, and author books on the subject and topic of preaching.  And let me tell you, he did not disappoint, He knows what he’s doing.  At first glance, this elderly man of perhaps 80, or so, gives no spectacular impression.  He is someone’s grandfather, some woman’s husband.  But as he slowly, step by step climbed the steps on Saturday night, and then again on Sunday morning, the audience was captivated.  You could have heard a pin drop in the building, and you couldn’t help but lean in and closely listen to every word he spoke, filled with wisdom of a long life lived serving the Lord.

“Habakkuk 2:4b “But the just shall live by his faith”, and in the faithfulness of God.”  He repeated.

Another theme of the evening was a short paragraph read that a woman wrote in the 1920’s, reflecting on where the church had been, and what was to come.  It spoke of the fact that things had not been done perfectly, but by God’s grace the church would continue, and that they would perceive even greater opportunities for the future.  How timely those words were.  There were individuals in that building that night who needed to be reminded: we must forgive.

Many things spoke to me that night, I wish I could tell you about all of them.  Even Sunday morning.  I confidently walked onto the stage as a prayer was being prayed, and I fully knew that I needed to proceed with the confidence that God has placed me here, at this church, for his purposes.  I knew full well as I glanced over the faces of closed eyes, that some of the people in this building had come with preconceived ideas of how our church was in the past, and how it was now, especially in regards to worship and music.  I knew that many had doubts in their minds that a woman could be standing on stage, guitar in hand, and be leading this congregation in worship.  But, I pushed the doubts and questions aside, and prayed that God would fill me with his Spirit and with the words he wanted me to speak.

I educated those on worship, in an interesting way yesterday.  If you were there, you probably had no idea what was running through my mind, but as I began to exercise within my calling and skills, I had no more fear.

I was struck, as I looked at the words of some of the old hymns or songs sung in the 20’s and 30’s, as we had several worship folders from that time, preserved.  It is profound thinking that those before us sang the same words and prayers that we sing even today.  This was the heart of what I prayed people would see on Sunday.  That we can look at the past, honor those who have paved the way for us, but to also function in the current culture, and find a profound humility that our God is unchanging, and we can sing those timeless things to him, even know.

I teared up as I looked out and saw how people sang with their whole hearts.  “Oh, praise Him, Oh, praise Him!  He is Holy!  He is Holy!”, right after singing “Holy, Holy, Holy”.  It was beautiful to see voices being lifted up to our God, and hands raised in surrender and agreement with words of truth.  In that moment, I knew my job was done.  People were worshipping, and they didn’t, by any means, need me to do that.  It was beautiful.  My heart was touched, and it was reaffirmed in my heart that: this isn’t about me (even though there were a NUMBER of things trying to distract me and cause me to be selfish about MY title, and MY position, God humbled me really quickly about that!).

Here are a few pictures, and a partial video of the song we did.  I love the words: “Scars and struggles on the way, but with joy our hearts can say, yes our hearts can say.  Never once did we ever walk alone, never once did you leave us on our own, You are faithful, God You are faithful…”

I’m sure there will be more to share about this weekend, but for now, that’s what I got!

Here is a link to a short piece I wrote on the stones of remembrance (Joshua 3, 4), that also shaped part of Saturday night as well.