Ivoryton Congregational Church for sale — From a house of worship to home

Published Oct. 3, 2017 Shoreline Times

It’s an empty and sad day when an old small town church closes its doors for good.
Prayers in the sanctuary, silent. No counting collection in the office, no more Sunday school and nursery. No choir practice raising voices into the beautiful old rafters. Counseling in the minister’s chamber, done. No more weddings, baptisms and funerals. Spaghetti dinners, rummage sales and community drives for clothing are a thing of the past. Daycare closed. The doors are shuttered. All that remains of the church is in the hearts and minds of the last few elderly members who helped guide, by way of acceptance, that even for an old church there is new life.

The church, which rests and waits on the banks of the Falls River is the Ivoryton Congregational Church. Built in 1888 she looks more middle aged than old probably because of the white aluminum siding which was installed back when that sort of thing was used to preserve and protect.

I’m referring to the church as a “she” because we do that with vessels which take us to wonderful places and safe ports. Something that church did so well.

On the shore of beautiful Falls River, more like a lake than a river, the church of my husband’s mother and my children’s youth, looks perfectly placed and planted, as it has been all these years. She has survived the Great Depression, the winds of many wars and a flood in the ’80s, which collapsed a dam up river and flooded the church’s basement.

Because the heart and soul of this house of worship had diminished to a few elderly holders-on, the magnificent old building was offered for sale. She, like many old churches and synagogues in the area, will become condos, a place of shelter, a place to call home. To bask in the gentleness and strength of faith which permeates the walls makes for a special kind of live-in comfort against the discord of daily life.

When I came to know the Ivoryton Congregational church it was just beginning its membership’s downslide. There were still two choirs, adult and children’s. My girls sang in the cherub choir with a few other children, professing their faith of innocence in song. Not long after, the choirs dwindled to one and then dispersed. Sunday service worshipers lessened to counts of barely a dozen, all single souls seeking to hold together the walls of their faith.

Years ago, on Wednesdays, when I’d drive my mother-in-law, Francis Howard Pianta (Franky to her friends and family) to her mid-week meeting with the church ladies, there was sanctuary dusting and program folding tasks to share. The ladies brown bagged their lunches. During our rides Franky often mentioned the church’s early days. Two services were held on Sundays because so many people attended. Sunday school classes brimmed with kids. She spoke of community dinners, pot-luck suppers and music festivals.

I remember a quilt show held years ago, where magnificent handmade quilts hung from the spectacular beams in the high-ceilinged sanctuary. Ladies wearing white gloves gently showed and spoke of each quilt’s history and maker. To see these masterpieces in cloth suspended above the polished pews was no different than standing in a museum rotunda, enjoying spectacular works of art.
Like many, our family stopped attending Sunday services. My oldest daughter’s wedding was the last held in that church. Subsequently my children moved away, lending their voices to raising their children in other parts of the state.

When Franky (a woman who proved on a daily basis that angels do indeed walk this earth) passed away well into her 90s, I stood at the altar and told of her love and dedication to her church. It was a somber moment honoring her and her house of worship. She knew that like dust, the eventual path for her and her church would be one of memories cast to the winds of time.

It’s only a building, some say, but it is and was more. The walls will always breathe faith, no matter the use they are put to. The floors will forever feel the rhythm of footsteps jumping in holiday joy or plodding in grief. The old adage, “if walls could talk,” will continue to listen and hold dear new voices

President’s ‘silent accomplices’ need to speak up

OP-ED   

Published July 23. 2017 12:01AM

  

In August of 1988, my first op-ed published in a newspaper, was here, in The Day. It was about being a silent accomplice. Witnessing nefarious deeds, while not contacting authorities, not speaking up, not stepping forward, meant you were a silent accomplice and as guilty as the perpetrator. The piece I wrote back then wasn’t fancy writing. It was from the heart, with a core value I am as proud of today, as I was 30 years ago.

Over the past decades I have had to refer to, and enforce that value, which at times cost me relationships and in two instances, jobs. Stepping forward and standing for what’s right has left me with no regrets. Doing that made me feel proud. Now, because I know it’s time to step forward again, I am trembling.

It is a very different world today, one which gives me the jitters because in the last year or so it has become alright to threaten, debase and vilify the press, as well as anyone who speaks out against the opinions of the current administration. Debasement has become the new norm for our president’s core and online trolls. That is frightening. That is why stepping forward is so hard now. That is why putting yourself out there is daunting. That is why I must.

I don’t think current Republican political leaders realize that by remaining in the back row, with tape over their mouths, they are aligning themselves with a base that will be looked upon historically as one to outdo the reprehensible Nixon Whitehouse. This is why, as frightened as I am, I chose to resurrect the basic tenor of my first op-ed, “Silent Accomplice,” and why I appealed to The Day to let me speak.

I am scared. Scared to write this, send this, post this, share this, scared to step forward.
But I must.
So I ask all Republican leaders: On which side of history do you stand?

If you do not speak up and speak out against abuse of authority, you are a silent accomplice to the corruption of power. To watch in silence as a divided nation stands confused and heartbroken in the face of promise, is to watch a villainess deed and do nothing. If you remain mute when voices vilify truth, it makes their lie your lie.

You are a silent accomplice.

 

 

To step back from the front line we endure every day, is unconscionable. To stare closed mouthed, while calamity ensues, is treasonous. To see our precious laws stretched to the absurd is reprehensible.

You are a silent accomplice.

To spit in the face of comfort, and endure that which is uneasy, to stand (alone) against that which (you know) is criminal, is heroic. It is up to you, by your actions, to convince others to change the rhetoric. You are more than one, and all powerful. History forms long lines behind good people, people who are right, people who do not submit to being a silent accomplice.
Where are you? Why are you so quiet?
We need you to step forward.

I am terrified by what I see as accepted behavior by our leaders. That not one Republican will stand strong against those who seek self-aggrandizement, at the expense of the American people, is domestic terror, as sure as if it was voted on and accepted.

As a woman who has watched our leader with embarrassment, who has witnessed our fall from the world’s grace, I am a silent accomplice no longer. As a voter, as an aging grandmother who wants to take all of you by the shoulders and shake sense into you, I say, “Wake up! Get up! Do something to stop what is happening to us.”

An adversary outside our borders, and one inside, wants us to be at each other’s throats. They haven’t won yet, but they’re close. Don’t let them destroy who we are, or you will all be silent accomplices to the fall of this great nation.

Carolynn Pianta writes for The Times weekly newspapers, a product of The Day Publishing Co. You can reach her at cp.enoughsaid@aol.com.