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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