Maybe You Can’t Go Home Again, But You Can Get Close.
As a kid, I could not imagine living anywhere but Rindal. It was where my friends gathered and where we went to church. Pastor Milo was the original MacGyver and could fix anything. We had a softball field with lights and a backstop, a basketball hoop on the parsonage garage, and an empty shed which we turned into our clubhouse. The Creamery was busy with milk trucks coming and going delivering cans of milk that would clang along the conveyer as the farmers unloaded their trucks. The Creamery was even open Sundays, and sometimes Dad would buy us ice cream after church. There was a butcher shop, locker plant and café in the same building. Across the street, Archie’s Store was stocked with anything you could possibly need. Neighborhood men would stand around the store, speaking in Norwegian and laughing at jokes we could not understand.
Time and progress aren’t always kind to our tiny towns. Children grow up and move away. Businesses close or become obsolete. And there are fewer places and opportunities for people to gather and stay connected to each other. Rindal, like many other little towns, became little more than a residential neighborhood. The store closed long ago. The Creamery is now used by a beekeeper to process honey. Only Faaberg Church has managed to cling to the past. It continues services as it has for over 130 years.
Like many others, I left home in search of something greater. I had goals of living in exciting places and doing exciting things. I have lived lots of interesting and not-so-interesting places and experienced lots of wonderful and not-so-wonderful things. But when I came home on holidays or weekends, the moment I saw the steeple, I knew that that two things were true: I was almost home, and there were lots of people in a 5-mile radius who really cared about me. That has been a feeling I’ve never had elsewhere, and I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed it.
This past summer, I learned that Faaberg Church had joined another parish and would no longer need its parsonage. One of my sisters mentioned -- maybe jokingly -- that I should buy the parsonage. That’s all it took! We looked at the parsonage that day. I was immediately overwhelmed by wonderful childhood memories. I had always loved that house! I could see and feel all that it had meant to so many people for so many years. I pictured myself living in this amazing memory-filled place watching the snow fall against the Church at Christmas time. I could see my cousin’s Herefords grazing from an upstairs window, and I couldn’t help smiling as I got a view of the barn my great grandfather built. Just thinking about the beautiful fields and farmland surrounding Rindal filled my heart with happiness. I felt such a sense of peace.
Then, the designer in me kicked in. My mind was bursting with ideas. I was – and still am -- so excited about breathing new life and new purpose into this special place!
So, no, Lisa and I won’t be riding banana bike to Archie’s. Janine and Hilary won’t be meeting us at the clubhouse. Kent and Tom won’t be playing basketball, and Jeff won’t be making me walk forever to find chokecherries. My friends may be scattered across the country, but in a sense, they are all still here. All the memories and goodness that is this place are still here for me. I still know, as I’ve always known, that when I see the steeple, I’m almost home. I’m surrounded by people who care about each other. So even though I know I can’t really go home again, maybe just maybe, I can still get awfully close.
