May 14, 2014

• It Was More Than Walls

  

  It was not a thing of beauty. It was not an architect's dream. It was not built to last forever, but when my sister sent me this picture along with the words, "demolition has begun," tears came to my eyes. How could such an old structure with cracks in the walls hold so many memories? This was the building I saw every time I walked out of the house in the morning as a child. This was the site of many of my earliest memories. This was the place that was known for almost 60 years as the Indian Building. As the years have passed it has changed in function but it has always been well used.

  Four large rooms and three smaller ones comprised this building, but it was more than rooms. It was the clinic where Public Health Service doctors saw over a hundred patients every Thursday and where my mother delivered babies on every day but Thursday. My brother and I loved to explore in the clinic. We never helped ourselves to any of the medicine, but we often had a need for a cough drop while we were exploring. One time we discovered a centipede in the sink and thought we could kill it with the soap that was sitting on the counter. All we managed to do was make the centipede drunk - poor guy really didn't know which foot to use next. We were not allowed in the exam rooms, but I remember peeking around a corner one time and learning just how much head wounds can bleed. Of course, this was where I saw the doctor if I needed one - hopefully I was only sick on Thursdays - and where I received my immunizations.

  This building was more than walls and windows. It was a meeting room for many. In my earliest memories, AA meetings were held in one of the large rooms where the 12 steps were posted in Navajo. Many times it was used for youth meetings or Bible studies. For years we would gather there on Friday nights for fellowship. In these rooms I struggled to learn how to write the books of the Bible in order with correct spellings and in these rooms I memorized many passages of scripture.

  It was more than cinder blocks and single-pane windows. It was where we prepared, served and fellowshipped over food. If the group was larger than we could serve around our living room table, we moved the meal to the Indian building. Guests from all over the United States sat in folding chairs and ate off of mismatched tableware, but no one minded the lack of china, we lingered over those times of fellowship. Children attending VBS were served from the kitchen and one year we made hundreds of popcorn balls to be included in Christmas treat bags.

  It was more than doors and a roof. It held the laundry room that was used for many years by dozens of ladies in the community. Wringer washers ran from sun-up to sun-down six days a week and on the seventh, I ran my arm up to my elbow in one of the wringers. I forgot that you should let go of the item you're running through the wringer and had to holler for help. And it was in one of those doors that I got my fingers pinched while playing a game of tag. It was on Thursday, so mom took me to the doctor to make sure nothing was broken.

  It was more than a building on a slab of cement. The wide covered porch was a wonderful refuge from the hot summer sun. I wasn't the only child who climbed the poles that supported the roof over the porch and I know I'm not the only one who remembers lining up under its protection to receive a meal during a community dinner. Old benches spent many hours supporting those who sat to rest or visit. Here children played while their mothers laundered.

  It was more than mortar and paint. It was a home. Families filled its walls with tears and laughter. Visitors found temporary lodging and young men learned how to keep house without their mother's help. Birthdays were celebrated and prayers were prayed.

  It was more than an old building built by men who now live in glory. One corner held a utility room where my father taught me how to fix broken items and clean dirty ones. The opposite end was the first home of the Torreon Christian School where I spent my last year of high school. It was a conference room. It was a storage room. It was a haven of rest. It was temporary housing. It was a repository of food.

  

  And now it's gone. Dozens of people worked to salvage everything possible from the building and all that is left is a pile of rubble. Now a home has a new piece of carpet and another has some extra insulation. Some of those cinder blocks will be reformed into another structure. The tin from the roof will be repurposed and old cupboards will soon find a new use.

  Yes, it's gone, but the memories will linger on in the minds of many. It's gone but from the same site another building will rise. Once again, godly men from across the country will build and once again this new building will play a part in the lives of those who build and those who enter its doors. May the Lord build this house and may he use it for his glory.

  • 3:44 pm
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