'Blessed be the tie that binds'

A history book fell out of my writing desk recently and as I stooped to pick it up, I noticed it had opened to a photograph of a dozen stern-looking Norwegians that included my great-grandfather, Andrias Heiberg.

I took it as divine intervention to write about what these men accomplished 130 years ago.

They were the pioneers, the first Norwegian settlers in Skree Township, Minn., who founded Gran Lutheran Church, a place that was so integral in my life that even today I can close my eyes and remember every detail of that sanctuary.

The quintessential white, steepled church sits on the edge of the Red River Valley, on a flat spot just before the land rolls into hills to the east. A tall iron gate at the entrance to the church grounds announces "Gran Menighet" to those who come to worship there. Menighet is the Norwegian word for congregation, and when the sign was installed more than a century ago, the letter "N" was put on backwards, and remains that way today because no one ever dared to change it.

Many of the congregation's pioneer members emigrated from Hadeland, Norway, and had attended the medieval Sister Churches of Gran in their homeland. So the name Gran was carried forward to the New Country.

My childhood was so entwined with that little church that most memories include it. My earliest recollection is playing hide-and-seek among the tombstones after our mothers shooed us outside so they could visit after Ladies Aid meetings. In that era of "children should be seen and not heard," any chance to run free from parental oversight was a burst of freedom and we relished it.

When I was 5 I was a flower girl in a wedding stage at the church. The ring bearer was my neighbor, little Bruce Engen, and I vividly remember being scolded when we were caught red-handed having a race, going down the stairs on hands and knees in our fancy clothes. I came down with the chicken pox the very next day, and remember Mom saying how fortunate it was that I'd waited until after the wedding to break out in the telltale red pox.

Christmas programs were a huge production, complete with the requisite angel and shepherd's costumes. I got sick and threw up backstage the year I was an angel.

Of course it wasn't all fun and games. Like teenagers who came before and after us, we dreaded taking sermon notes that were required for confirmation classes.

Since I could play the piano, I was recruited to be the church organist for a few years in high school. I faithfully practiced the hymns on Saturday, playing with gloves on during the winter months and attempting to negotiate the foot pedals in snow boots because they didn't turn on the heat until Sunday morning.

It's hard to believe this little church boasted a membership of 275 in 1914 and remained about that size for the next several decades. But the large families and little dairy farms have all but vanished, and average Sunday attendance these days is about 30, most of them elderly. The church will celebrate its 130th anniversary with deserved fanfare, but everyone knows its days are numbered. This might be its last hurrah.

I'm back in Minnesota for the Memorial Day weekend, where my mother and I will put the flags on the veteran graves in Gran Cemetery like we've done since Dad's been unable to walk that far.

It's oddly comforting wandering among the graves. So many have traded their place in the pews for this final resting place. I see their faces, I remember the neighbor who always sang off-key. I recall their laughter, their mannerisms, their caring, because we spent so much time together.

And I'm reminded of that old hymn, "Blessed be the tie that binds, our hearts in Christian love…"

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com