As a graduating senior, many chapters in my life are closing: my four years at Woodson High School, living with my family, attending Cornerstone. So in a way, saying goodbye to The Falls Church feels natural: the church that has been home as long as the house on Colt Lane. The church holds countless memories for me; they collect like dust in the corners and on the mantles, residues of me proclaiming: I was here, I was here, I was here.
Here I am in kindergarten, sitting in a plastic chair, a two year old on my lap, listening to my parents teach Sunday School. Here I am in first grade, cross-legged on the floor of the Fellowship Hall, giggling as I watch the daily puppet show of the summer day camp. Here I am in fourth grade, carrying my lunch box to the bins marked with each squad number, ready to start another day at Summer's Best Two Weeks Camp. Here I am in fifth grade, crouched in the library book return cart, suppressing giggles as I wait to startle passerby. Here I am in sixth grade, sitting on the hard floor of Southgate with only two other friends in Crossroads. Here I am in seventh grade, washing cars enthusiastically in the upper parking lot, singing and dancing to the music blasting over the speakers. Here I am in eighth grade, crouched around the tiny small group table made for the 4 year old classroom, talking with my small group leader and the three or four other girls. Here I am in ninth grade, sitting in the back row of the sanctuary with my friends, taking notes and passing notes. Here I am in tenth grade, rushing into the sanctuary to the cue of harp music as the angel Gabriel, late for my scene. Here I am the Labor Day before my junior year began, speaking to the church about God's call on my life before a very difficult year began.
Now, here I am my senior year, walking out of the brick building for the last time, turning back to look at the rounded, arching bricks just faintly lit by a tiny orange glow from the inside, barely penetrating into the blue darkness. The dusk falls on the church like a curtain, the quiet evening surrounds it, as I and other stragglers walk away from a service for the last time. Just hours ago, the church was brightly lit, filled to the brim with people rejoicing, singing, and looking forward to what God has for us next. Now, in the still night, the building stands still, resolute, unchanged, and yet no longer mine. I am sad, yes, a little. But I'm not leaving the church behind; I'm leaving the building.
I played on the playground, both as a child and as a Sunday School assistant; I hid behind the potted plants in the very front of the sanctuary; I ate pizza in the modular, took pictures on the front lawn, had picnics in the shady area between the sanctuary and Nicholson, put on a Cornerstone Prom and transformed Nicholson Hall, stood in the darkness after Cornerstone with many friends, talking and laughing, cleaned Southgate during Fusion, had small group in the elevator, Prayer Chapel, library, and Treetop Room. I have lived in this building. And now, like so many other areas in my life, I am leaving this building for a period of uncertainty and change. But it's the natural way of life; we grow most in times of discomfort. And so I look forward to the growth to come, to the witness of The Falls Church Anglican, to relying wholly on God and not on familiarity for my spiritual growth. The time to come will be difficult, but it's an exciting beginning.
