I Remember

There is something surreal for most of us when we step foot into places that impacted us as children.

We all have those places.

Maybe it is the first home you remember as a child. If you drive past that home today, I hope your mind is flooded with as many good memories as mine is. You remember things that probably mean nothing to anyone else. A room. A hallway. A backyard. Where something used to sit.

I think churches can be that way too.

This past Sunday, August 2, I had the privilege of preaching at First Friends Church in Colorado Springs.

I went there as the Superintendent of Rocky Mountain Yearly Meeting.

But while sitting in that sanctuary, I felt like a child again.

First Friends is the first church I ever remember.

Before my father was called into ministry, and during the time of his conversion, First Friends was our home church. My grandfather, Lloyd, was the pastor there in the early 1970s. It was in this church that both of my parents began their journey of walking with Jesus.

I am grateful for those conversions.

Because I am a recipient of the grace they received in that sanctuary.

It was also in that sanctuary that I was dedicated to the Lord.

Eventually my father received his first call into ministry and we moved to Plainview, Nebraska. I was only five when we left Colorado Springs.

Five years old doesn’t seem old enough to remember much.

But I remember.

I remember an Easter Sunday, probably 1975 or 1976. I had my little polyester suit and tie on, and somewhere in the memory is a chocolate Easter bunny that I couldn’t wait to eat the head off of.

I remember the balcony. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

And I remember how big the church seemed to me.

I remember the long hallway that led to my grandfather’s office. I even remember the drawer on the top right side of his desk.

That drawer is where I became a thief for the first time.

I mean, my Grandpa kept Dentyne gum in there, and I didn’t see any reason why Grandpa’s Dentyne shouldn’t also belong to me.

I remember worship services.

I remember the singing and the prayer times.

I remember my grandfather preaching. Grandpa Lloyd would stand there speaking with reverence and passion while nervously jingling the change in his pockets.

I can still hear it.

I remember.

And Sunday, sitting in that sanctuary again, some of those memories started coming back.

For a few moments, I felt like that little boy again.

Anticipating God to speak.

I felt home.

I began seeing people I knew and remembering names.

Harrisons. Davisons. Jamisons. Nelsons. Denisons.

At some point during my message, I started recognizing the pattern and said without really thinking about it,

“There are a lot of sons in this room!”

Then I looked over at Jim and Becky Towne and told them, “I think you should officially change your name to Towneson!”

We laughed. We as in me. Jim said with a chuckle from the front row, “no thanks.’

But there was also something about that moment that struck me.

These weren’t just names.

These were families.

Generations of families.

I am evidence of that.

Before worship that morning, I walked around and visited all of the Sunday School groups. They were full and vibrant. Every age was represented, from children to seniors.

I loved seeing it.

Then we gathered for worship, and the sanctuary felt full too.

Yes, there were a lot of people.

But I don’t just mean numbers.

It was full of joy.

Full of connection.

Full of life.

There was laughter before the gathering began. There was joy during worship. And yes, these Quaker Friends of mine can get their toes tapping.

The worship band was so good.

I was blessed.

And then we were quiet.

There was a time of silence during worship, honoring a tradition that has been part of who we are as Friends for generations.

It was quiet.

And it was powerful.

As I sat there, I started thinking about how rare that kind of moment has become.

For many of us sitting in that room, it might be the only intentional pause we get all week.

No phones.

No talking.

No one trying to fill the silence.

Just a room full of people sitting together in the presence of God.

Waiting.

Listening.

I was reminded why this part of our Friends tradition still matters so much.

My message that morning was about community and the work of the Holy Spirit in forming us into one body.

I talked about Acts 2 and those first followers of Jesus who were filled with the Spirit and then began sharing life together. They worshiped together. Prayed together. Ate together. Shared what they had. They became a people.

The Holy Spirit didn’t simply fill individuals.

He formed a people.

As I looked around First Friends that morning, it felt like more than something I was preaching.

I could see it.

And I realized that the Spirit had been doing that work in this particular place long before I ever understood what church was.

My grandfather preached there.

My parents met Jesus there.

Their lives changed.

I was dedicated there.

My father eventually heard God’s call into ministry.

Our family left Colorado Springs and followed that call.

And more than fifty years later, the little boy who stole Dentyne gum out of the pastor’s desk came back and stood behind the pulpit himself.

I don’t say that because I think there is anything particularly extraordinary about our family.

I say it because I think there is something extraordinary about grace.

Grace has a way of traveling through generations.

Maybe that is one of the reasons Sunday meant so much to me.

And then, after worship, we had a potluck.

Seriously, how could the day get any better?

Fried chicken.

Good ol’ casseroles.

Sweets.

And some amazing strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Someone offered me what was left in the pan.

I finished it.

What else was I supposed to do? I’m the Superintendent and it felt like I was ministering deeply in the moment.

But as good as that pie was—and it was really good—that isn’t what I kept thinking about as I left Colorado Springs.

I kept thinking about the people.

And the future.

I am profoundly excited about what God is doing at First Friends.

There is a healthy community there that seems to truly love one another. They are growing young. There are children and families. There are people who have been there for decades worshiping alongside people who are just beginning their stories.

There is history there.

But it doesn’t feel like a church trying to live in its history.

It feels like a church grateful for its history while anticipating what God might do next.

As Superintendent, that gives me so much hope—not only for First Friends, but for our churches across Rocky Mountain Yearly Meeting.

Maybe that is part of what I carried away from Sunday.

A grandfather stands behind a pulpit and preaches.

A young couple encounters Jesus.

Their little boy is dedicated.

That boy’s father is called into ministry.

The family leaves.

Life happens.

More than fifty years go by.

And one Sunday, that little boy walks back into the sanctuary.

He hears the singing.

He sits in the silence.

He watches another generation of children walking those same hallways.

And he remembers.

God was here.

God is here.

And I can’t help but believe—

God isn’t finished here.