I started attending Community Methodist as a baby, I was raised in the pews, going to Bible School, YMF, Sunday School. I played in the church parking lot, splashing in the puddles after the rain. As a young married woman, I was the church's secretary, printing the weekly bulletins and helping the pastor with any task he wanted me to attend to. Don and I raised our children at Community, taking them to Sunday School every Sunday, doing the Penny March each first Sunday of the month, and participating in all activities possible at the church. It's my home.
I've always accepted the Methodist Church in full measure. After all, I was a Methodist. It's the only denomination I've ever belonged to, ever even worshipped with. The politics of Methodism was not my concern. I was ignorant. I accepted everything that was part of Methodism as correct, I never questioned anything. I never questioned that we as a church were assigned a pastor, without even listening to him, auditioning him. He was sent to us by the church leadership, in essence in my mind, sent by God. I remember listening to my mom, Leslie, and my Aunt Jean complain to each other about different pastors. "He never visits! He doesn't keep his gas receipts! He's never in the office!" Yes, they complained, but they also knew that we as a congregation had no voice, no recourse.
March 2020, Covid arrived. The Methodist leadership ordered all the Methodist Churches closed to in person worship.
