Where we find church

Whenever I catch the scent of sun-warmed pines on a summer breeze, I think of going to church.

The connection wasn’t forged at Bible camp, though the one I attended in junior high was awash in sun-drenched pines (and sun-drenched wood ticks).

The connection comes through my husband’s maternal grandmother, Virginia. In her later years, she wedded a Methodist pastor named Henry. He was larger than life in a warm, wise way, and he had a story for every occasion, though in his case you loved him for it.

He was 6 feet tall with a hearty girth, and his physical stature might have been intimidating, but I never heard him raise his voice except to pronounce a benediction at the United Methodist Church in Estes Park. He was the embodiment of a good shepherd.  

If Henry fulfilled the promise of genuine pastorship, Grandma Ginny fulfilled the true spirit behind the fellowship of the saints.

She knew how to break bread with people, from the monied to the meek, and her hospitality always felt extravagant, even with simple fare. Armed with nothing but coffee and rolls, she could overcome your defenses and reassure you that it was OK for her to make a fuss over you for awhile.

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