This is the church that I grew up in. My mom was the choir director. My dad was, on occasion, one of the deacons. I was an altar boy when I was old enough. Today, I am thankful for this little church in the little farm town that I’m from – and thankful that I had a family that taught me reverence towards God.
Here are the lyrics to one of the hymns that we sang every Thanksgiving [written over 150 years ago]:
Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home!
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God’s own temple, come;
Raise the song of harvest home!
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