From the ceiling to the floor stretch the largest, sepia print of the ascension of Christ one would ever behold. It hung behind the pulpit of one of the oldest rural churches in the county. Methodist it had been. The center of community activity in the 1880s and 90s. Ice cream socials and regular revival meetings. The building sat on a flat corner parcel of land, built close to the ground. No fancy oak pews, just flat board pine, rectangular brown painted seats. No curved backs, no cushions to ease the hour. The floors made of rough sawed planks, worn smooth. Black rubber, ribbed walkway matting in the aisles. The large bell rung every Sunday morning. A gift from the Crawl family some would say, though not all would agree. Open windows and funeral hand fans in the summer. Pot belly coal stove and blankets in the winter. Kids sat to the left of the preacher in the pews set aside the altar. Sparse attendance in the 1960’s; Maggie ensured supply preachers were there on Sunday morning. Long since being a Methodist church. Probably 130 years until progress consumed it. Embury Church, long gone, not forgotten.
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