FRIEND, WE NEED THEE

You trek down the stairs of your apartment building in a kind of style reminiscent of the Joker in that movie. It's been three years since you left your Quaker heritage behind and moved on to the glittering swank of Broadway. Well, technically off-Broadway but, hey, who's counting? Your sex life is your own choice, your drinks are continental and your meditation is active. Life is good. Or, at least, it has been.

You reach trembling hands into your mailbox and pull out a wad of joy; bills, bills, bills. Of course your latest issue of 'Rolling Stone' is in the mix, as is a card, a card in a light blue envelope. You trudge back up the stairs, the fear of what's in the envelope stealing the manic joy with which you had descended just a few minutes earlier.

#

The Greyhound bus is packed with people, people with problems, but you bet that none of their problems can hold a candle to yours. The card was from your mother and it was the usual news; marriages, births, deaths, anniversaries and they're going to tear down Shiloh. This brought immediate and stinging tears to your eyes. Shiloh Friends Church had been the church of your childhood. Now, what with the youngest member being a spry 78, the upkeep was becoming a problem and so they had decided to disband and close the church. You are on your way to bid one last fond farewell to your childhood home away from home. This sucks more than anything that has ever sucked before.

#

The crowd waiting for you at the bus terminal fills your eyes with tears anew. And the scene you take in, of that classic church on the hill, is one that leaves your heart an empty shell of its former self. For the church that once stood proudly now leans ever more towards the road. The belfry leans backward and threatens to wipe out the building. You smell the mold get stronger the closer you get, and when you see the satanic symbols spray painted on the interior windows, yours sobs become uncontrollable. For though you swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh you're still very nostalgic, and a scene like this is like a knife to the heart. Without realizing it, so buried in your grief you are, arms enfold you, hands caress and pat you and a mass of humanity, mourning as you are, stand by you and hold you as you lose another part of your past.

#

Your mother's cinnamon buns still have the power to wake you from the deepest sleep, and indeed they do as your eyes snap open and your feet quickly hit the floor. You head downstairs, exchange the usual morning pleasantries, eat gooey buns and drink good, strong coffee. The balm that is family has taken the edge off the pain, but it's still hard to let go. Once you have eaten, you kiss your parents, brothers and little sister and go to the town's labyrinth, to listen to your New Testament and to walk in circles. As the sound of God's Word washes over you you begin to accept the inevitable. Change is a constant. Progress is a steamroller. And, as they once more roll down your cheeks in rivulets, tears are a language God understands.

#

The church is coming down today and you are more than thankful. Though it's been a wonderful week with family and friends you're ready to get back to your secular world and the sexy barista that's stolen your heart and quickened your desires. She's missed you too. But, as you lean back on your heels to take it all in, this moment in time belongs to all those whose hearts will break today. You turn your eyes to the horizon and watch as the bulldozers, backhoes and excavators roar into view. You swear it's overkill, like bringing a bazooka to a knife fight, but what's done is done, and so you all watch in a type of horror as those huge metal dinosaurs begin tearing the past limb from limb and breaking its bones. The stained glass windows and the bell were both removed ahead of time, and for that you're extremely grateful. The hymnals and church records are in the hands of the local museum and the local photographer has snapped more photos than they've snapped in years. But it's been worth it, for now future generations will know that once Shiloh Friends Church stood proudly on the hill, as a beacon of light and a giver of hope. You wipe at your eyes and discover, much to your amazement if not amusement, that the tears have begun flowing again. Well, it's not hard to see why as the sound of the church's bones being broken by the jaws of the machines is enough to bring anyone to tears. So, just before they begin to back fill the basement, you turn, embrace your family and go to the bus terminal to catch the Greyhound. Your barista awaits!

#

As you recount your story to the barista babe she embraces you and plants a long kiss on your still somewhat quivering lips. She holds you tight and coos like a dove in your ear. Since you've been back you've been waking up in a cold sweat, the images from the church's destruction playing on repeat in your dreams. You sit up and, holding your barista tightly, you pray, pray for the destruction to stop, pray for the dreams to end and pray that maybe your past doesn't have to completely disappear. You snuggle with your brew babe, and amazingly, the dreams stop and you fall asleep, secure in her love and the knowledge that nobody, noway and nohow, can ever steal your memories. They are yours, now and always. They are the fuel that warms your heart. They are the happy little clouds in the sky of your soul. They are stronger than statues, more appreciated than opinions. Friend memory? We need thee.