" I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, and the voice I hear...falling on my ear...the Son of God discloses....AND he walks with me and he talks with me and tells me I am his own, and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known"
Hymn written by C Austin Miles , 1913.
A friend posted these lines on Facebook today and reading them zapped me mentally back to the place where I found my definition of faith. It was in a church ,of course ,but of a type few people have had the blessing to attend. Yet it was here I came to find a basis for faith in my life.
A white clapboard building with no steeple stood alone in the field at the mile crossroads near our Missouri farm. It was not Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran or any established religion; instead it welcomed a congregation of all these sects. the members were the the ten or twenty families that lived in the four mile square of the church's setting. Women came in good dresses but not Dress up dresses; men came in slacks and even engineer striped bib overalls. They came every Sunday though our circuit rider preacher only came bi- weekly.The empty pulpit Sunday was Sunday school for all ages.People came because it was a community gathering place and more important where the New Testament love thy neighbor was more than just words.
If a member was late due to a difficult calving the men went to help and services waited. If a member had a problem at harvest or planting, the men were there to help with it. A new baby or a death signaled an onslaught of casseroles, help cleaning or whatever else was needed to ease the problem. Children giggled, ran in the church yard, and learned by the example set by their parents. It was good place to see christianity in action without judgment for the most part or perhaps as pre-teen I did not look deeply enough to see it. My father not a church goer during our city days attended here and that with everything else made it a special place.
Hymns were a part of every Sunday. Everyone sang and sang loudly lead by a slightly out of tune upright. Even the tone deaf of which I was one sang with gusto. Two hymns still float through my mind. The first at the moment nameless contained the words "some one far from harbor you may lead to shore." Simple words but what a dictate to a believer. Your light or rather your actions impress others and affect them.Show caring and acceptance and people blossom. That clapboard wood stove heated country church followed that dictate,and all who walked through the door were welcome.
But the one that affected me the most is quoted above. Alone away from the distractions of life one can feel the soul open to the spirit. As a Missouri preteen that meant going to my room and while not exactly praying fervently,I was able to think through the events of my day and sort it out in a way that pleased me , my parents and my blossoming idea of faith. I came to believe that faith was not a matter of set prayers from a book but an inner recognition of something guiding life,all life. Of course, it was not fully formed and in truth perhaps is not done yet.
Now as an adult I have gone through health issues, a divorce, family stress, and work stress. Not easy and in reality not one of us can say we have not had such issues. We are all alone when these things attack us. They can pull us all the way down, or we can grow from them. When one hits me, I mentally open the door to that garden, meditate undistracted by life for just a few minutes, and my faith fills me with the belief that He is there with me. The joy comes.
My faith sustains me and allows me to be less centered on my needs and more on the people who need me. Like the men and women of that simple church, my faith leads me to join others to help others when the need is there. Thanks may never come, but the action of doing something as simple as picking up groceries, having coffee with an open ear and a silent mouth, or any other task enriches me in a way I can not explain. But the results gives me joy and the garden in my soul grows bigger.
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