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