The Little White Church on Beachley Street

Feelings of wistful sadness washed over me as I lay sleepless last night.  I thought of the small white church I attended as a pre-teen and teenager: First Mennonite Church on Beachley Street in Meyersdale, PA.  My throat tightened as memories crowded my mind.

I visualized the center row of long dark benches and two rows of shorter dark benches on either side, creating two aisles.  At the age of eleven, I stood at the end of one of those center benches to publicly declare my faith in Jesus Christ as tears rolled down my face.  And after a number of weeks of instruction, I knelt in front of that church to be baptized by the Mennonite method of pouring.  

I remembered a row of benches against the back wall of the church, too.  I saw the pulpit and the two alcove windows behind the pulpit, with a picture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane hanging on a narrow wall between the windows.  I remember a door to the outside on the left.  A steeple with a church bell that rang on Sundays graced the church over the entryway.  Tall narrow frosted-glass windows looked like those of churches one sees on Christmas cards.

 

I thought about how that little church gave me the opportunity to develop in my Christian walk. Here in this place, I was asked to teach summer Bible School, Sunday school, and sometimes give a talk on a certain topic Sunday nights.

We had a great youth chorus under the direction of Ray Hershberger, the father of my best friend Maretta.  I remember the weekly practices and chorus programs we gave in churches and at Oakland Nursing Home in Maryland.  I think we sounded quite good!

I recalled the wonderful youth group we had under the direction of Sam and Elizabeth Yoder.  We held elections for a president, secretary and treasurer and followed Robert's Rules of Order in conducting our youth meetings.  I remembered the  mystery suppers, talent nights, hayrides and hot dog roasts, making food baskets at Thanksgiving for needy families, making candy in Elizabeth's (and my mom's) kitchens for Christmas packages, and more. 

I'll never forget my impression of a preacher from the Church of the Nazarene came to First Mennonite to preach for us.  I can still see him walk to the platform, get down on his knees, and pray for a little while before preaching. 

I remembered Ressley Tressler, Norman Teague and Ross Metzler who pastored our little church over the years.  I gave thanks to God for their faithful oversight of our little flock.

When the church disbanded, a group of Spirit-filled “Amish Mennonites” started a Charismatic church there called “Rock Church,” and my husband and I were so blessed to be part of that.  During that time, our first son was born (forty-five years ago) and we dedicated him to the Lord in the little white church.  My parents and Dave’s parents also attended there, and I thank God for their godly influence in our lives.

We drove past the little white church several years ago.  The once-special place is now used for some sort of garage or tire storage facility and the windows are boarded shut.  Overgrown with vines, trees, and shrubs that threaten the thirsty once-white clapboard siding, my dear little church looked forlorn and badly neglected.

I wiped my tears with the bed sheet.  Even though the church is no more, it was once used by God to give me spiritual life.  I felt deeply grateful to God for all the people who entered and exited the doors of the little white church on Beachley Street.

"The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance."  Psalm 16:6 (NIV)

  

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy