The Small Green Church
At Nungharam Village
“That is your village!”
I am not too sure which year it was but I was a young boy. It was sometime in December I guess. My maternal grandpa and I had walked for almost two hours at my pace from his village to mine to attend some function. Mom and dad hailed from adjoining villages situated on parallel hill ranges. There was no public transport then between the two villages, and sadly so even today. So we walked. We were early that evening so we rested at a spot called Chehshi which offered a panoramic view of the village.
Grandpa smiled, ‘That is your village!’
That was probably the first time I was visiting my village. My parents were settled in the valley where all their four boys were born. Our paternal grandparents were no more even before our birth and our father passed away when we were still young. So it was our maternal grandparents who would take us to their village in the hills every year during the winter vacation of our school. And that particular year grandpa and I were visiting my village to attend some function which I couldn’t quite recollect now. But the memory of the church building etched on a young mind remained vividly clear.
As it turned out, the Nungharam Baptist Church was a small green church. And I am reminded of a hymn “The Church in the Wildwood”:
“There’s a church in the valley by the wildwood
No lovelier spot in the dale
No place is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale”
Two Roads Diverged
I admit that I didn’t grow up in the village in the hills. But the connection with my village remained, thanks largely to the relatives and the church elders who kept visiting our family settled in the vale. I am very sure that if my dad or his dad were still around, we would have frequented our roots. But that was not to be and I have no regrets over the circumstances I have no control.
But I am fairly familiar with the life in those hills because every year in my childhood, grandpa would take us to his village to spend our winter breaks. Though my grandpa’s village is hardly sixty kilometers from the valley, the lack of public transportation required us to walk for a good five hours or more up the hills from the last bus stop.
I still recall the blisters on our little feet due to the long walk. But what freshness of air on those hills! We would take occasional breaks at the brooks for some water to drink or to freshen up. At times we would stop by a gooseberry tree fruiting so luxuriantly for some refreshing bite. Other times we would shout out into the open to listen to the echo ring back to us. Grandpa would spot some farmers working in their fields at a distance by the side of the hill and he would cup both his palms around his mouth and communicate to them them with a shout “Ooohhhh…!”. They would respond back in the same way. They may not know each other but it was a way of acknowledging their presence. And as we climb higher up the hills, the change in altitude would create difference in the air pressure to our eardrums and block the ears. Grandpa would tell us to open our mouth wide or yawn till we hear the breaking of the air barrier and hearing gets back to normal. After hours of walking, the muscles in our little legs would ache and we longed for a break to sit down for a while. But a few minutes is too long a break because grandpa would say that the “body should stay warm”. Only years later would I understand that if we’d rested for too long our muscle would get stiff and we still had a long distance to cover.
A long climb up the hills and we would reach Langtakhvuong where two roads diverged … one to my village and another to my grandpa’s village. I guess one stanza in “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost captured my feelings well.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;”
So for many years I traveled to my grandpa’s place each winter and saw my village only from a distance, a hill range away. And I am so grateful to my maternal grandparents who always took care to remind me of my village … my roots.
Nourishing Our Souls
The life and ministry of that small green church provided a vital link to me with my village. It continued its ministry of nourishing the spiritual lives of people staying in the village as well as those away. Each year the printed Christmas programme would reach us and every important decisions of the church would invariably be communicated to us. Even to this day the church had never failed to reach out to those of us away from the village. In a way the social media like Facebook and WhatsApp have eased the communication.
The church continues to gather the faithfuls every Sunday morning. It continues to nourish the spiritual lives through its ministry of teaching, fellowship and prayer. The church remained faithful in praying not only for those staying in the village but even for those of us elsewhere.
Admittedly there are only a handful of them staying in the village today. The compulsion of providing better education to their children have led many families to move to towns and cities. The better job opportunities offered by cities have weaned many family away from the farming life. So it is true that many of the benches in that green church remained empty on a Sunday morning. But the fact remains that we all feel connected to this small green church no matter where we are.
The History of the Future
A few years ago it was decided that the wooden church building after about four decades of existence, needed a new structure. And the work started at a site where the village originally stood. The construction work is on and it will take its own time through its limited budget.
Months ago when I visited my village, I stood at the construction site of the new building and had a glimpse of the small green church below. I knew that I was looking at the history of the future. But more than that I was looking at an institution which stood tall and faithful in that village. It was an institution I strongly felt connected with.
I took a deep breath, and nodding my head with a smile to myself, I looked at the small green church … the Nungharam Baptist Church.
