Phoesune

    I have served this church for 30 years. When I first arrived every surface on me sparkled. I had no competition for the attention of the passersby’s. The lights on my head were bright and warm and lit up the night in 3 second oscillations. My bright white sides had no marks as they do today. There was no mold or rust on my frame. My feet stood tall and proud on solid earth, but now they cannot move me because the ground has yielded and time has allowed the slow creep of vines to wrap their arms slowly around my base. I have become permanent in my place.

    I remember Pastor Breen in his youth. He had fought hard and strong for the church elders to adopt me. They had been reluctant because of their desire to not appear too hokey and evangelistic. Pastor Breen eventually prevailed and the next week I came to my new home. They had a service to commemorate my joining the church. Pastor Breen was the first to place his hand on me and pray that I would serve this church to the honor and glory of God. They even anointed me with oil and one by one each of the elders walked by and blessed me. For a new member this felt like quite an honor. Here I was with all my flash and circumstance truly humbled from the start as the servant of this church. It was then that I dedicated my life and have never regretted it, Not once in 30 years have I doubted my faith or my church.

    Oh there have been times when I was tested. There were these neighborhood kids in 1987 that gave me trouble. They would steal my clothing of words. At first they had begun to rearrange my letters to make false, funny, or filthy statements. Some were quite simple like “Jesus Loves You” became “Joe Loses SUV” with the other U centered at the top, but over time they went to more and more vulgar comments. Finding ways to make the letters say those seven words we should never announce. Yet on each morning at the crack of dawn, Pastor Breen would come out and set me straight and he would faithfully pray that those kids would change. Soon enough they began to steal the letters and the Pastor was forced to start finding ways to make words right. Like when he spelled “God Lives” by replacing the “I” with an exclamation point or had to use the “M” upside down to make a “W” for the “Woman’s Group.

    The elders asked the police to protect me from theft and they spent a few nights watching over me until the caught the kids in the act of stealing. Pastor Breen came out that night and talked with the boys and the police and explained how they were hurting the community and the church by their actions. The boys were sorry and apologized. They would work after school for the church until they had repaid for the lost letters. I would see them out every Saturday mowing around the church yard. It always made me nervous when they would weedeat the grass around my feet. Sometimes I just felt they were mad at me for causing them pain. It’s funny now to think that two of them are now on the board of elders and seem bent on finishing the pranks of their youth by completely destroying me.

    I have had other events in my life and the dents and marks on my body tell the stories well. The large flashing arrow that was so brilliant in my youth no longer points directly at the church and that was due to a drunk driver that had thought it fun to try and sneak through the parking lot and had dinged the arrows tip. The short out from the hurricane of ’93 had left the fifth light permanently useless. The crack in my left front leg that makes me sag so much and the one florescent bulb in my guts that flickers regardless of any replacement make me ache, but I still deliver the message. 

    I’ve seen these new signs, with their programmed graphics and their splashy electronic displays. They stand on their pedestals and look down on us old faithful, diligent servants of the past. They mock us with each firework explosion and rotating word. No one can reach them. No one steals their letters. No one cares anymore. When people see me they know that someone is here. I am not controlled by some nameless figure behind the wall of his cathedral. The man that cares for me walks out each day and fixes me. That is what people need in a church. A person that cares and no matter what message is displayed in the words, the message of my presence is that someone that cares is here.

    I remember these things more so today because yesterday Pastor Breen died. They have hung wreaths on my shoulders and on my sides and placed a final message on me that I will never forget:

“FUNERAL SERV!CE 10AM
IN REMEMBERANCE OF
PAST0R J0E5EPH BR33N.”

I see his hearse go by and my leg finally gives out under the weight of my grief. I collapse and the stagnant water stored in my metal tubing poured down the side of my facing. For once in my life I can express more than words but emotions and tears. The fall has left me in such a strange position. My arrow which had so faithfully pointed to the church all these years is now pointed towards the heavens, guiding my dear sweet and kind friend home. We both have met our end and God has ordained that I should guide this man of faith to the pearly gates.