- Clairemont Hills Baptist, where my boy scout troop met. The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany and St. Thomas More Catholic church.
- Decatur First United Methodist, where I went to "Parent's Morning Out" and then preschool (taught by some mothers of classmates). I still recall the fear when I lost track of time and lost left outside during recess while in the tire swing. I found my way back in and some adults got me back to my teacher. I remember the morning routine of getting dropped off and going inside the preschool, along with the cubbies for our bags.
- Decatur First Presbyterian, where my great grandfather and great aunts/uncles were longtime members. Our family used to host our holiday gathering in their fellowship hall each year, where my great aunt would ask my dad to MC.
- North Decatur Presbyterian, a church my grandfather helped to plant and foster, where my dad was in boy scouts. I came here for events with my cousins and grandparents; these days my visits are typically for funerals. Previous pastors knew my college chaplain.
- Decatur Friends Meeting, my father's spiritual home throughout childhood. I remember the smell of the library, the size of the worship space, the pipe cleaners my dad let us play with to keep quiet, the playground, the giant kudzu patch behind the church, and the culvert up to the parking lot. The Friends Meeting is also where I learned about adopted kids, and that children don't have to look like their parents.
And Oakhurst, my church.
In childhood, Oakhurst was my impression of what all churches were like. Walking into the main doors in the back of the building and up some stairs, you'd reach a large foyer with the fellowship hall to the left, as well as a staircase (reached by ascending three other steps). Walking straight ahead, and up a few stairs, you'd be below the sanctuary, with various sunday school or extended session classrooms and the choir room, where I did Children's Choir all through elementary school. I learned patience standing on those risers, and managed to memorize enough lines and music to pay Saint Francis in a church musical. There was a playground at the side of the church that I don't recall much about.
On the second floor, you'd enter the building on a "bridge" over the light well, go up some stairs, then down two stairs, and you'd be in the floor of the church offices and library - with doors to get into the back of the sanctuary or a staircase after three steps up.
I mention all of this to say, it wasn't very handicap accessible, and it was good to build a new secondary building in my youth.
I remember sitting on the floor, facing backward onto the pew, playing with quiet toys during services, then being dismissed to extended session. The first year I "aged out" of extended session, I remember consciously wanting to act like an adult and stop playing with toys. I therefore taught myself how to wink in church over several Sundays.
I remember going to youth sunday school after the new building was completed, in the basement, and learning about the historical bible, which fascinated me - especially the idea of the "Q" book that textual analysis tells us acted as an ancestor to Matthew and Luke, alongside Mark.
I remember Monday Night Youth Group, which met in the homes of young adults in the Atlanta area. I am so grateful to those adults for providing us guidance and role modeling what kind of people we could grow into being.
And then, I remember learning about Okahurst's history. It turned out that Oakhurst was special, because most churches in the south didn't stick around when the neighborhood changed, and Oakhurst had been almost entirely black for decades. Most churches didn't have black and white members worshipping together. This history is chronicled in The Turning Point, a film about Oakhurst's choice to remain in Decatur as white flight rapidly changed the composition of the neighborhood.
Most churches didn't have someone like Jim Brooks to bless the babies (see 0:47 here) or folks like Annie Harper, who brought her beloved daughter Ernestine most Sundays. Oakhurst helped me meet folks with all sorts of disabilities and learn about their lives as we welcomed them (and still welcome them).
Most churches don't turn away a child seeking to be baptized because they don't think the child understands the decision he's making. Oakhurst did. Oakhurst sought and drew out that questioning - pulling on me to understand what I thought about the world. Oakhurst helped me to discern that my baptism in the Presbyterian Church mattered, though I don't think its the best spiritual practice.
In childhood, Oakhurst was my impression of what all churches were like. Walking into the main doors in the back of the building and up some stairs, you'd reach a large foyer with the fellowship hall to the left, as well as a staircase (reached by ascending three other steps). Walking straight ahead, and up a few stairs, you'd be below the sanctuary, with various sunday school or extended session classrooms and the choir room, where I did Children's Choir all through elementary school. I learned patience standing on those risers, and managed to memorize enough lines and music to pay Saint Francis in a church musical. There was a playground at the side of the church that I don't recall much about.
On the second floor, you'd enter the building on a "bridge" over the light well, go up some stairs, then down two stairs, and you'd be in the floor of the church offices and library - with doors to get into the back of the sanctuary or a staircase after three steps up.
I mention all of this to say, it wasn't very handicap accessible, and it was good to build a new secondary building in my youth.
I remember sitting on the floor, facing backward onto the pew, playing with quiet toys during services, then being dismissed to extended session. The first year I "aged out" of extended session, I remember consciously wanting to act like an adult and stop playing with toys. I therefore taught myself how to wink in church over several Sundays.
I remember going to youth sunday school after the new building was completed, in the basement, and learning about the historical bible, which fascinated me - especially the idea of the "Q" book that textual analysis tells us acted as an ancestor to Matthew and Luke, alongside Mark.
I remember Monday Night Youth Group, which met in the homes of young adults in the Atlanta area. I am so grateful to those adults for providing us guidance and role modeling what kind of people we could grow into being.
And then, I remember learning about Okahurst's history. It turned out that Oakhurst was special, because most churches in the south didn't stick around when the neighborhood changed, and Oakhurst had been almost entirely black for decades. Most churches didn't have black and white members worshipping together. This history is chronicled in The Turning Point, a film about Oakhurst's choice to remain in Decatur as white flight rapidly changed the composition of the neighborhood.
Most churches didn't have someone like Jim Brooks to bless the babies (see 0:47 here) or folks like Annie Harper, who brought her beloved daughter Ernestine most Sundays. Oakhurst helped me meet folks with all sorts of disabilities and learn about their lives as we welcomed them (and still welcome them).
Most churches don't turn away a child seeking to be baptized because they don't think the child understands the decision he's making. Oakhurst did. Oakhurst sought and drew out that questioning - pulling on me to understand what I thought about the world. Oakhurst helped me to discern that my baptism in the Presbyterian Church mattered, though I don't think its the best spiritual practice.
I have been to Orthodox, Catholic, American Anglican, Congregationalist, Episcopal, Methodist, Presbyterian, Calvanist, Quaker, LDS, Lutheran, Pentacostal, UCC, and Unitarian churches, but after all of that listening, I am and will always be a Child of Oakhurst, so grateful to those who came before and showed me the way.
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