The social media algorithms are evidently catching on that I must be spending a little more time and mental effort into reading up on historic buildings and streets or other past points of interest. So, these random black-and-white images keep popping up, because it knows I’ll click “See more” for curiosity’s sake, even if it isn’t quite as mind-numbing and as complete a waste of time as other internet content. I guess there’s this interest of wondering if those walls could talk, the story they would tell: stories of hardship of laughter and pain and joy and fear and thrills and plenty more along the way. All such stories from people whose voices have been seemingly silenced.
It reminds me of where I went to elementary school: out in “the boonies,” as some would say. Out far enough in the countryside that it would require a much earlier wake-up time to be picked up by the bus on its way to numerous stops all seemingly spread out in several mile increments. The school supposedly opened in the mid 1920’s, back when more and more farming families dominated the landscape. Over time, though, less and less would be interested in keeping the respective family business going, and more and more would move to the Columbuses and the Clevelands and the Cincinnatis among other places, away from the rural tranquility.
Come 2005, the local school board decided it was no longer feasible to keep that historic school, with its fair share of black-and-white images hanging on the walls marking its timeline, open for operation. And soon enough, it was physically gone altogether. Seemingly all the memories, all the stories…vanished. Thankfully, the past that shapes us doesn’t go away that easily, though.
I can still remember where every room was: the gym that looked like it was put together when James Naismith invented basketball; the principal’s office that I had to visit only a couple times; the small library on the third floor that a had a larger space behind it that connected it to the music room with those desks that appeared they were taken straight from a one-room schoolhouse from even more distant-boonies. And I still remember every teacher from Mrs. Barth in kindergarten to Mrs. Pfeiffer in the 5th grade, not to mention bus drivers and support staff, who had to deal with center-of-the-universe-thinking me.
It was in that building. and with those precious people. where learning became a marvel instead of a chore, something to look forward to as opposed to dreading. I don’t know how they did it, but they did. And I’m sure it was easier to pull off then with no social media algorithms and seemingly far off in the distance from whatever chaos was ensuing in the world. Regardless, it remains a place, even if no longer physically standing, that still holds a precious piece of the past still impacting me today.
However, I am fully aware that not everyone has such stories from their school building memories. And not all stories shaped today in such places carry the most pleasant tone. In a couple weeks, though, on Sunday, August 10, we will take time to not only bless backpacks, but bless students, and then the following Sunday, bless teachers, faculty, staff and more. To serve as a reminder that no matter what story develops for this upcoming academic year and beyond, the story of God’s unconditional care and joy and thrill over them all will remain unchanged. It is the Gospel that cannot be toppled down. It is the foundation of our being that never gets too old to hear. It is the promise that nothing can happen in any of their lives to separate them from the love of God in Christ Jesus, their Lord. Thanks be to God, indeed!
In Christ,
Pastor Brad