How the Wonder and Weirdness of a Bus Reminds Me of The Blessings of the Local Church
What a Ride!
When I was a kid, bus travel was still a common form of transportation between cities and towns. One summer, as a young child, I climbed the steps of a Greyhound with nothing but my small canvas suitcase and a hefty dose of independence. I was headed to Grandma’s house all by myself and I was elated!
As it turns out, bus rides can be a little tricky. They don’t always leave on time, and that can be incredibly frustrating. I quickly learned that it’s important to choose your seatmate wisely. You’re going to be together for a while, and the bus driver doesn’t look kindly at passengers changing seats during the trip. Roads can get bumpy, and some novice riders can easily get carsick. I want to be as far from those people as possible. Most buses have a restroom in the back, but when nature calls, the little sign on the door always says, “occupied.” It’s a test of patience when you ride the bus to Grandma’s house.
Recently, I’ve been reflecting on my life journey, striving to recognize the story God is writing. In identifying the highest and hardest moments of my life, I’ve discovered that my most precious and most painful experiences have often come through the church. It’s like my childhood bus ride—delightful, but also a bit difficult.
I was in early elementary school when a new family moved onto our street in Shreveport, Louisiana. Typical of my outgoing and slightly annoying personality, I went straight down and introduced myself. Our two families were like pieces of a puzzle. We were alike and different in all the right ways to fit together perfectly. They had a daughter my sister’s age, a daughter my age, and a bonus younger daughter who fit in with everyone. Mrs. Sue, the matriarch of the family, became fast friends with my mom. We were, quite literally, a match made in heaven. The Griffins were far more than just a family moving into our neighborhood. They were there to serve in the local church where my family attended on Sundays. God put us on the same bus—in this case, an orange and white Volkswagen minivan.
The Griffin’s van was headed to church every time the doors were opened, and anyone who wanted to come along could hitch a ride. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but something (or Someone) drew me to immerse myself in all the activities of the church. I went to church every Wednesday night, mostly to cause trouble, but that’s where I was first introduced to the idea of missions. I sang in the children’s choir, probably because there was some kind of special reward for good attendance. Nevertheless, I learned that music is a way to praise God for who he is and what he has done. The local church linked arms with my parents to raise me in the “nurture and admonition of the Lord.”
As I got a little older, our church called a new pastor who was very tall and distinguished, with a classic “pastor” voice. I knew he was a good preacher and an avid Alabama football fan, but I had no way of knowing what an impact he would ultimately have on my family. When he needed a partner for weekly visitation, Brother Wayne chose my dad out of all the men he could’ve asked to join him. This was not his doing, but the Lord’s. As it turned out, their weekly time together forged a friendship that played a huge role in my dad’s spiritual formation. My father’s leadership in our home was a direct result of God’s intervention in his life through the local church and through a very special friendship born there.
This church is also where I trusted Christ for salvation, felt God’s call to ministry, and met the godly man who would become my husband. There is no way to rehearse my story without devoting several chapters to the church that raised me.
Vocational Movement
Marriage brought a blending of stories. As my husband and I launched into vocational ministry for the next ten years, the ride got bumpy, to say the least. Our first church was just a few miles from home in Blanchard, Louisiana. In those early years, we were young and knew so much more than everyone else—or so we thought. We wanted to drive the bus. It’s a wonder they didn’t kick us out and change the locks. But by God’s grace, we experienced the fierce love of a patient pastor. He modeled faithful leadership and became our “father” in the ministry.
It was in this church that we had our first child. One of the benefits of a relatively small church is that when you have a baby, she’s everybody’s baby! All the church laid claim to her. Our daughter first experienced the love of Jesus from these precious people. Some of these saints she no longer remembers, and others who are no longer with us, yet they remain an indelible part of her story. I’ve learned that the passengers on the bus are always changing—some move, some die, some get on another bus. That’s what happened to us when we moved to Starkville, Mississippi.
We grew to love our new church family and the people of that little college town. Our son was born not too long after we arrived there. The college kids who came to our home for a weekly bible study also became babysitters and bedtime storytellers. It was this body of believers who collectively surrounded us with encouragement and support when tragedy struck my family back home. During choir rehearsal one Wednesday night, God reminded me of his goodness and sovereignty even in the midst of that ongoing tragedy. I have never forgotten the power of that moment. I suppose he could have used any people in any place, but I think he’s a bit partial to his church.
While God is perfect, his church is not. The local church is a family, and every family has its ups and downs. The ride got so bumpy during this leg of our journey that many of us were bruised and battered. Reflecting on this time, I have grown to recognize many ways that I responded wrongly. Thankfully, God used this season to begin shaping my character in ways that would prove excruciatingly painful to my oversized ego. I suppose we all feel this way about some part of our stories, but I have often wished to relive that chapter of my life as the person I am now instead of the jerk I was then. But everybody knows you can’t go back, right?
We only stayed in that small Mississippi town for four years, but we left a part of our hearts there when we moved back to Shreveport. The part of my son’s heart that remained in Starkville was undoubtedly in the shape of a paw print. Practically from birth, he was determined to be a Mississippi State Bulldog. Thankfully, that’s exactly how his story played out. It’s not surprising that he landed right where he started . . . literally. The completely unexpected plot twist is the growing, healthy, thriving church he now attends. When we visit him at college, we go to the service with him, and I can hardly contain my tears of joy. I worship with a measure of gratitude because God gave us a second chance to be a part—if only through my son—of the great work he is doing in “our” church. I guess sometimes you do get to go home—at least for a visit.
I have continued to experience the bitter birth pains of Christ being formed in me as my ego dies slowly and character is built over a lifetime. This process of spiritual formation has happened almost exclusively through the local church. I shudder to think of who I would be apart from my brothers and sisters in Christ nudging me to keep growing and knocking me over the head when necessary. In recent years, I have experienced the most concentrated season of spiritual growth as a direct result of a pastor with a contagious love of theology—not merely for the sake of knowledge, but for the sake of love. I can honestly say that I was born and raised (and continue to be raised) in the church. What a ride!
Melinda Wallace lives in Shreveport, Louisiana with her husband Stan, and they have two grown children. Her passion is leveraging her love of language to exalt Jesus and invite others to enjoy Jesus revealed by the Holy Spirit through Scripture. She has written Bible study curriculum for Lifeway Christian Resources and for use in local churches. You can follow her blog at melindawallaceblog.com.