Cindi
05-01-2009, 10:37 PM
Scattered around the rolling hills of Schulenberg, Texas, are several churches that were built in the late 1800s. It was my sister Dianne’s idea to go and visit them one weekend.
“They’re called the painted churches,” she said, and since we were planning a sisterhood weekend—me, Dianne, and Judy—it seemed like a good plan.
We met in La Grange at noon on Saturday, where we rented a room for the night, and after lunch we were on our way to see the famous painted churches.
Our first stop was at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. The steeple rose completely unexpectedly out of the countryside, beckoning us on. We arrived to find that a wedding had just ended, and a family reunion was going on at the church hall. Not wanting to interrupt, we waited in the car until a woman passed, and asked if she thought we would disturb anyone if we entered the church. She hastily informed us that we would not.
Still not completely comfortable, we meandered our way across the lawn and ultimately eased our way into the now empty church, and discovered what the term “painted church” stood for.
The ceilings were decorated with elaborate filigreed designs and there were murals, painted statues, stained glass, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Not having been in a Catholic Church in some years, I didn’t quite know how to behave, and when I spoke, it wasn’t above a whisper.
We’d been there several minutes when a small family arrived; a mother carrying a baby and a father leading his young son, maybe 7 or 8 years old, by the hand. Of course the little boy wanted to climb the stairs to the choir loft, and peek inside the confessional. Nothing bored him, he wanted to see everything, and he wasted no time in accomplishing this. We heard his urgent whispered voice as he fired questions at his parents …
“What’s this for? Who’s that in the painting?”
I watched him as he broke free of his parents and meandered in and out of the pews, stopping to peer through the stained glass windows, trying to see outside. Eventually he found the little table at the back where candles were set up, for in the Catholic Church, it is customary to light a candle and say a prayer for someone you love and care for. The candles were electronic, with little switches on the top, perfectly understandable in an historic church; who wants to risk a fire?
I looked away as the little boy examined the candles and suddenly I heard “click, click, click,” and I knew that the child had decided that there were a lot of people he loved, and that he wanted to light candles for all of them.
A moment later, there came a gasp that was heard round the church, and I knew the boy had discovered the little sign that said a dollar donation was expected for the lighting of large candles, and fifty cents for the smaller ones.
I watched his face as it sunk in that he was in debt to the church, with no hope of settling his accounts. In the end, he did what all kids do when they need to be bailed out; he went to his dad, and I listened over my shoulder to the following exchange …
“Dad! We owe the church $12!”
“What?”
“I lit candles for you, and Mom, and for Grandma, and … and I didn’t know!
“What did you do that for?”
Father and son studied the flickering candles. I suspected that $12 was a lot of money for this little family; it might pay for gas for the trip back, or maybe a lunch at a fast food restaurant. Mom and the baby on her hip were blissfully unaware of the financial crisis they had just been thrust into, but Dad was frantically trying to figure out what to do.
I waited, holding my breath … I was sure that God would understand if the family couldn’t afford the donation—after all, He created inquisitive little boys, didn’t He? But there was also the lesson for the boy, as well.
In the end, the father removed his wallet and placed the money in the collection box, and my heart went out to him. I thought about the sacrifice that God had made for his only son and how $12 really paled in comparison, and I understood the plight of the young father, but I was grateful and gladdened that he made the decision he did, and taught his child about taking ownership for his actions.
The gratitude in the boy’s eyes, was nothing compared to the love in his father’s eyes, and as they walked away, the father rested a hand on his son’s shoulder … and I knew that all was forgiven.
“They’re called the painted churches,” she said, and since we were planning a sisterhood weekend—me, Dianne, and Judy—it seemed like a good plan.
We met in La Grange at noon on Saturday, where we rented a room for the night, and after lunch we were on our way to see the famous painted churches.
Our first stop was at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. The steeple rose completely unexpectedly out of the countryside, beckoning us on. We arrived to find that a wedding had just ended, and a family reunion was going on at the church hall. Not wanting to interrupt, we waited in the car until a woman passed, and asked if she thought we would disturb anyone if we entered the church. She hastily informed us that we would not.
Still not completely comfortable, we meandered our way across the lawn and ultimately eased our way into the now empty church, and discovered what the term “painted church” stood for.
The ceilings were decorated with elaborate filigreed designs and there were murals, painted statues, stained glass, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Not having been in a Catholic Church in some years, I didn’t quite know how to behave, and when I spoke, it wasn’t above a whisper.
We’d been there several minutes when a small family arrived; a mother carrying a baby and a father leading his young son, maybe 7 or 8 years old, by the hand. Of course the little boy wanted to climb the stairs to the choir loft, and peek inside the confessional. Nothing bored him, he wanted to see everything, and he wasted no time in accomplishing this. We heard his urgent whispered voice as he fired questions at his parents …
“What’s this for? Who’s that in the painting?”
I watched him as he broke free of his parents and meandered in and out of the pews, stopping to peer through the stained glass windows, trying to see outside. Eventually he found the little table at the back where candles were set up, for in the Catholic Church, it is customary to light a candle and say a prayer for someone you love and care for. The candles were electronic, with little switches on the top, perfectly understandable in an historic church; who wants to risk a fire?
I looked away as the little boy examined the candles and suddenly I heard “click, click, click,” and I knew that the child had decided that there were a lot of people he loved, and that he wanted to light candles for all of them.
A moment later, there came a gasp that was heard round the church, and I knew the boy had discovered the little sign that said a dollar donation was expected for the lighting of large candles, and fifty cents for the smaller ones.
I watched his face as it sunk in that he was in debt to the church, with no hope of settling his accounts. In the end, he did what all kids do when they need to be bailed out; he went to his dad, and I listened over my shoulder to the following exchange …
“Dad! We owe the church $12!”
“What?”
“I lit candles for you, and Mom, and for Grandma, and … and I didn’t know!
“What did you do that for?”
Father and son studied the flickering candles. I suspected that $12 was a lot of money for this little family; it might pay for gas for the trip back, or maybe a lunch at a fast food restaurant. Mom and the baby on her hip were blissfully unaware of the financial crisis they had just been thrust into, but Dad was frantically trying to figure out what to do.
I waited, holding my breath … I was sure that God would understand if the family couldn’t afford the donation—after all, He created inquisitive little boys, didn’t He? But there was also the lesson for the boy, as well.
In the end, the father removed his wallet and placed the money in the collection box, and my heart went out to him. I thought about the sacrifice that God had made for his only son and how $12 really paled in comparison, and I understood the plight of the young father, but I was grateful and gladdened that he made the decision he did, and taught his child about taking ownership for his actions.
The gratitude in the boy’s eyes, was nothing compared to the love in his father’s eyes, and as they walked away, the father rested a hand on his son’s shoulder … and I knew that all was forgiven.