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Not long ago, I wrote about the oldest Presbyterian church west of the Mississippi River, Bellevue Presbyterian Church. Bellevue’s home is a tiny Missouri town called Caledonia, population 158.
Down the Aisle, photo by smalltowngirl
Bellevue remains locked to the public the majority of the time, but I had a special opportunity to see the inside of the church a few weeks ago.
The church, founded in 1816, is very, very simple on the interior. Humble wooden pews line the sanctuary, and simple red carpeting pads the floor beneath your feet.
A piece of the church’s original carpet hangs framed in the narthex (thanks @gregscherer) of the church. Purchased in 1907, 90 yards of carpeting cost the church $63.95.
$63.95, photo by smalltowngirl
The windows at Bellevue are not elaborately stained or colorful. Instead, they are plain, tranparent glass with peeling paint on their wooden frames.
Window, photos by smalltowngirl
One of the things I like the most in the church’s interior was the sanctuary ceiling, pieced together with slats of wood running diagonal at 90 degree angles to the straight edges of the church’s walls.
Ceiling, photo by smalltowngirl
The hour or so that I spent inside the old building left me with an eerie headache and fatigue that the ghost-story-lover in me wanted to believe was caused by the spirits of angstful old Presbyertians, but which I should honestly attribute to allergies. Bellevue has been around for almost two hundred years. That’s a lot of mold and dust.
The Good Book, photo by smalltowngirl
Bellevue Presbyterian Church is located in Caledonia, Missouri. To read more about the church and see photos of its exterior, see my first post about Bellevue.
To read more about Caledonia, check out the following blog posts: Caledonia, Missouri, Smalltowngirl’s Many Hats, and Caledonia, Missouri Pt. II.
For more photos of my adventures in Small Town, Missouri, check out my flickr photostream.
As a kid, I wasn’t afraid of much, but I was scared of what was beneath the surface of lakes, oceans, seas, gulfs or streams. Any natural water source that was too deep for me to see the bottom of terrified me.
Our hearts are like those lakes, oceans, seas, gulfs and streams sometimes in that there is a darkness within them. There is a black, broken place inside even the kindest of hearts.
When I was 15, I went SCUBA diving in the ocean off the coast of Mexico. I was surprised that the bottom of the ocean at that particular spot wasn’t dark at all. In fact, it was beautiful and colorful and filled with amazing textures and patterns. Tonight I’m reminded of the bottom of the ocean, and suddenly the depths of my own heart aren’t so intimidating.
As much as I loved the compexities of Brooklyn, I’m thankful for the introspection, faith and courage I’ve found in Missouri. The depths of our fears are far more gentle and beautiful than we can imagine.
I challenge you to dive into your own.
Sitting at Foundation Grounds in Maplewood, intending to work remotely after a morning meeting at Westport, my work servers have crashed, and I’m unable to access emails or files for work.
The coffee shop is lovely, with refreshingly happy and down to earth staff (no snobbish yuppy baristas here). There is a quirky turquoise mural of a tree with white flowers blossoming on the wall, and mismatched (but coordinated) upholstery covers high-backed chairs.
The pear and brie sandwich I had for lunch was lovely (fair warning though – it was onion heavy, though the onions were raw and easily removable). The iced mocha wasn’t bad either. Foundation Grounds gets brownie points for using biodegradable plastic cups, made from corn.
In the cold case, I found Kambucha, organic juices, Honest Tea, and Stonyfield Farm yogurt – a fairly forward-thinking collection of foods and drinks for this part of the country.
To top off my visit to Foundation Grounds, I overheard someone speaking Mandarin Chinese, and turned to find a husband and wife speaking Chinese to one another. The husband, a St. Louis-born acupuncturist and his wife had just moved back to St. Louis three days ago from years in Seattle and Asia.
His Chinese was far more fluent than my own (embarrassingly rusty) Chinese is, but it was so uplifting to meet another person who has moved back “home” to this part of the country after seeing the world in hopes of contributing something to the communities we grew up in.
Today’s coffee shop encounter is a reminder that when things happen (like servers crashing), there’s often something better in store. It’s been a rough last week for me, but with my hope and optimism restored, I’m looking forward to what the rest of this week holds.
I sat on the porch at dusk, drinking a Sam Adams. Not one to stay still for long, I wandered into the garden to put the trellis I bought yesterday in with my berry bushes.
Much to my delight, there are already green peppers the size of my thumbs and tomatoes the size of golf balls. The berries have me the most excited, though. My “golden raspberries” are looking suspiciously like blackberries, and my blueberries are growing, though they’re still green.
At the close of a week that’s been peppered with questions and concern, watching my little berries grow renews my belief that all things do grow and change. My hope is restored by these little green miracle plants that are becoming fruits and vegetables right before my eyes.
The thing I haven’t mentioned yet is that I have a very un-green thumb. It’s true. I’m notorious for not being able to keep plants alive. That said, maybe my little growing garden helps build your faith a little bit, too.
All photos by smalltowngirl
I love this coffee shop.
Still new (open for less than a month, I believe), Bauhaus Kaffee is the newest addition to quaint, downtown Farmington’s collection of stores and restaurants.
The owners, who are from Fredericktown, Missouri, have spent the last two years renovating the space.
I’m not sure how old downtown’s buildings are, but my guess is that they’re from the early 1900s. The sidewalk outside is red brick, and two tables with two chairs each, sit just outside the cafe’s front doors.
The cafe’s two floor-to-ceiling picture windows let sunshine stream in, and offer a view of the side of the court house, around which downtown Farmington was built.
Gleaming, subtly distressed hardwood floors are offset by black granite-topped tables and contemporary black leather sofa and armchairs.
Prints of German artwork hang on the red, exposed brick, and a piano sits in the back.
Beside the piano sits an empty guitar stand – empty because someone in the cafe has inevitably picked up the instrument to pluck out acoustic melodies each time I’ve been in the cafe.
I like to think that by way of my Sunday afternoon latte ritual, I’m helping keep Pat, the owner’s spirits high. Today we chatted about their scones being hand made from scratch each morning, and about the anticipation over the arrival of their new stove, which will accomodate homeades soups in addition to their already homemade baked goods.
Today, craving something sweet, I ordered a mocha. The taste was just as great as the presentation:
The clientelle is as diverse as one could hope for in a community as relatively homogeneous as Farmington, Missouri is.
Today, for instance, there were three q-tips (white haired folks), a woman who looked to be my age with a mod, black haircut and a large tatoo on her foot, and another late-20s/early-30s writer-type with a laptop. I couldn’t help the excitement, overhearing him voice his enthusiasm about a local, independent magazine.
I hope that Bauhaus Kaffee surives. I take that back, I hope that it thrives, and I have faith that it will. Warm fuzzies will take over my belly when downtowns come fully to life again, and I think Farmington’s well on it’s way, thanks to places like this one.
The morning sun was at my back as I drove North on Highway 8. I was hovering just below the speed limit as I approached the Potosi city limits.
There is no turning lane on the highway in that spot, so when I saw a car passing the pick-up, I realized that the truck was in my lane. I slammed on my brakes, gripping the steering wheel with my left hand and throwing my right hand to my horn.
The grey and black Ford F-150 looked like a wall of steel standing before me as I braced for impact.
The left front end of his truck struck my front driver’s side. His truck scraped down the side of my car, and I watched the shoulder of the road move all too quickly beneath my tires.
I felt my car leave the road, then the shoulder of the road, and finally come to a stop nose-down in a six-foot ditch.
I put the car in park. By the time I got out and turned to look at the scene of the accident, the truck’s driver was already halfway between his truck and my car, asking me if I was alright, and
apologizing.
Adrenaline pumping, my hands began to shake. Soon my arms and shoulders began to shiver and shake, too.
By the time the police reports were written, the car was on a tow truck and I had arrived at the auto shop, I was sick to my stomach and exhausted.
My dad helped me with the phone calls and paperwork for insurance and a rental car, and then I worked a 7 hour day, leaving the office well after 9 p.m.
I slept for 12 hours last night though, and spent today with a sadness in my stomach that I can’t explain.
The sadness was there yesterday as well. I wished someone would hug me so that I could let the tears flow. Instead, I worked. Today I cleaned and unpacked more boxes, and only now, after midnight, in my bed alone, are a few tears falling.
I wasn’t afraid. As I braced for impact, I felt at peace with whatever was about to happen.
What a strange thing – to be aware of that sense of peace even as a Ford truck is pummeling the car you’re driving. I think I resigned myself in that moment that I was prepared for whatever hand God was dealing me.
I was a blessed woman to have landed in the cozy 6-foot ditch that I landed in (rather than in any number of 50+ foot drop-offs along that highway), and while I was at peace with whatever was going to happen, I am so, so thankful that I was given another day to wake up and live today.
Smalltowngirl
Taken 3/14/09 in Potosi, MO
It’s 9:49 p.m., and I’m sitting in my office in Potosi, Missouri after a full day of work, including eight hours in the office and several more with our board of directors. If ever before this year I had been told I would work in Potosi, Missouri, I would have bet everything I owned that you were lying. (And I’m not a better).
If you had told me I’d love my new position working in Potosi, Missouri, I would probably have laughed in your face. (And I’m generally very polite).
Yet here I am, tired after my first week of work here, but tired in the “sugarplums dancing in their heads” kind of way, where I feel an excitement about what’s to come and such a deep peace about where I am in this moment that rest will come easily when I finish this post and crawl into my bed.
This week I have been woken up by the family dog, I’ve had coffee at the kitchen table with my dad before work, and I’ve watched my mom get so creative and excited about cooking really great, healthy meals for us.
Wednesday on my way home from work, I saw a deer cross the road in front of me and run down a hill and into a field. The weather has warmed up here, so I’ve continued to test out my new trail running shoes on jogs in the woods behind the office. Tonight, I held a chincilla in my hands (his little nose was adorable, and his “pricklies” were softer than they looked!).
My coworkers are gracious, thoughtful, and incredibly welcoming. Do not misunderstand me here, they are also hard-working, experienced, many of them very well-traveled professionals. They have brought me into my first week here at the Y with nothing but compassion and kindness, which heals my soul in ways that I didn’t know it was even aching.
Do I miss New York City? Of course I do, in little ways, and sporatically. Do I love where I am though, professionally and personally; mentally, spiritually, and physically? Yes, wholly.
All things happen for a reason, and I believe that my new job and new home are no exceptions.
I gripped the rungs of the ladder, excited. Kids laughed and hollared and water splashed in the pool beneath me as I placed my foot on the first cool, metal rung.
Quickly, I ascended, afraid to look down. The top of the ladder came quickly, and as my eyes became level with the diving board, I realized for the first time exactly how high in the air I was.
What would happen if, at the top, you froze and couldn’t get yourself down? Would they call in the fire department like the do when a cat gets stuck in a tree?
All of time stood still for a moment. Butterfiles rose up in my stomach, and fear trickled slowly from my core, into my arms and legs, and on to my fingers and toes.
It was quiet from the top. A place of relative solitude. The kids down below looked small, and even the lifeguards – in their towers of authority – were beneath me.
I was on my own, and while I wanted to feel the rush of the dive, I was terrified to actually jump from the diving board now that I was standing on it.
Whether it was fear of humiliation, the uncertainty of what would happen if I simply sat on the diving board and refused to come down, or my innate sense of courage and adventure, I’m not sure.
I walked to the edge though. I took a deep breath, and I jumped, a scream of terror and delight escaping my lips as my body hung in the air and began plummeting down.
When I crashed into the water and made my way back up for air, I couldn’t imagine not having had the courage to make that leap.
***
“How are you feeling about the move?”
With twenty-four hours left, maybe this helps answer that question.
***
I sat with Jeff on a park bench in Chinatown watching teenagers in t-shirts toss a football to one another. It was nearly fifty degrees today after weeks of temperatures that hovered around zero, so warm sunshine and the lunar new year brought a sense of lightness to the park around us.
My hope when he invited me to come with him to Chinatown today was that we’d find our shared space again – the space where “he” and “I” are “us”.
We talked quietly about what lead us to break up; how I wouldn’t have applied for a job out of state if I’d known he saw a
future with me, and how me applying for a job out of state was the beginning of him falling out of love with me.
In seven months, he’d never spoken the words, “I love you” to me. Today he spoke them twice, and while it was good to hear him verbalize his feelings for me, it wasn’t romantic or special the way it should be when those words are spoken to someone for the first time.
I watched a lanky Asian boy gracefully catch the football his friend threw.
Instead of sharing the words, “I love you” with a sense of excitement or aniticpation, I heard them from Jeff for the first time with a football landing in a teenager’s hands, and a vacuum-like sense of emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
The words, “I love you” weren’t followed by a kiss or a hug. They were followed with a request that we be “friends.”
“I don’t want you to be my ex-anything,” he said to me. “I don’t think of you as my ex-girlfriend. I think of you as my friend.”
Kids laughed and an old man shuffled by in clunky black tennis shoes.
A hawk flew down from the sky and clutched a mouse from the sidewalk between its talons. As quickly as it landed, it flew away again. I’d never seen anything quite like that – such a breathtakingly graceful gesture, but one that ended in the death of a living thing.
I’d never felt anything quite like what I was feeling then, in the park, when Jeff finally admitted that he loved me, but followed it with a request that we be friends, either.
Some things just aren’t built into our natural, biological, or intuitive sense of understanding. Hearing “I love you” followed by “I want to be friends” is one of them.
“I want to be your friend, but I’m not even sure how to do that,” I told him.
I’d have my opportunity to learn how to do that a short time later as we entered a party thrown by his coworker, Ed, who promply introduced me to someone else as Jeff’s girlfriend.
I was proud of myself for smiling, not crying, and making small talk with the people there. I was proud of myself for doing everything in my power to be Jeff’s “friend” when so deep inside my heart, I feel pulled to be the girl he loves and holds and takes care of - not the girl he’s friends with.
“This is my friend, Melissa,” he would say to people as he introduced me.
I am his friend, Melissa. I would think to myself, rehearsing this new role that I’ve been forced into.
We went to the roof of the building, and I looked out onto the streets of Chinatown. Colorful scraps of paper littered the streets from the parade earlier in the day.
Nearly two weeks after accepting my new job in Missouri, a sense of the scale of that decision hit me firmly in the chest as I stood looking out on Chinatown from that rooftop.
I’m leaving New York, and in deciding to leave, I’m also turning my back on one of the best things that’s happened to me in a very long time; my relationship with Jeff.
The tears started then, as this sense of perspective hit me, and Jeff and I said a quick goodbye. He squeezed me in his arms, but it wasn’t the same as it used to be.
I wiped away a few tears there on the roof, but tried to hold my composure until I reached the street outside of Ed’s building, at which point tender sobs grew out of my hurt.
I walked crying through Chinatown, to the base of the Brooklyn Bridge, and I cried as I walked across it into downtown Brooklyn.
Through Brooklyn Heights and into Fort Greene I cried.
I cried as I walked through Fort Greene Park, down Dekalb Avenue, and onto South Oxford Street, where I sat for a few minutes on the stoop of our brownstone, taking it all in, and letting a few more tears stream down.
That was hours ago, but tears are sliding down my cheeks again now as I write this, in my pajamas, in my little bedroom in my shared apartment in Brooklyn – a place I can’t call home much longer.
I’m not his girlfriend anymore, and soon I won’t be a New Yorker anymore either. I pray that this decision I’ve made is the right one.
We began talking. I apologized for snapping at you during brunch. You accepted my apology. Things seemed okay, but I had a lot on my mind. We were sitting on the white couch, and you reached out for me. I needed to talk, not to be held. Even now, when you aren’t here to hold me, I don’t regret that decision.
An hour later, I took your keys off my keychain and set them quietly on your book shelf. You walked out of the apartment as I started to gather the things of mine that had gradually accumulated in your space. I wanted to slip as gently and quietly as I could out your front door, and I wanted the hurt to stop hurting. I didn’t want to leave any traces of myself behind to haunt you.
I thought that maybe you were leaving – that you would take a walk and I’d be gone when you came back. A moment later the door creaked open, and you appeared with two sturdy shopping bags. It wasn’t until a few hours later that I realized you’d taken them from the stack someone in your building had left in your entryway. I packed my things.
I said to you what I wanted to say. You were standing next to the radiator. You looked like someone had crushed you when I said what I did. I guess that it really wasn’t until that moment that you realized how I felt about you. You had already made your decision though, and I needed to go.
You put my bags in the backseat of the cab, and then you wrapped your arms around me. I can still smell the leather of your coat. I could not hug you back. The heaving sobs rose from deep inside me – from caverns of emotions that I thought would be foverever closed. You had opened them up, and now they echoed my heartbreak.
I sat in the cab and watched you walk down the sidewalk defeated, shoulders slumped and arms hanging low. I thought to myself, “I love you,” and I asked the driver through choked sobs, “why do men do this?” even though I knew that man didn’t do this.
I had prayed for two weeks that our future would be made clear to me. Saturday night we laughed and teased and watched movies, and we fell asleep happy. The next day, I watched those words come out of your mouth, and I heard the tone in your voice. I think that you were as surprised to hear yourself say those words as I was.
I feel as if someone has punched me in the heart. Looking back at my life, though, I have never had a bruise that didn’t heal. And the healing that you offered my heart, Jeff, far exceeds the hurt that you’ve left in it. Thank you for that.
