Upon graduating from seminary, Susan and I accepted a call to serve two congregations in southwest North Dakota. We lived in a parsonage next to the larger church in the larger of the two towns that were 17 miles apart. Each Sunday morning and several times each week we made the trip to the smaller town to lead worship, visit folks, attend meetings, participate in the youth group, meet with the women’s fellowship and join work days at the church. Over the seven years we served we helped paint the bell tower, put new shingles on the church roof, replace hail damaged siding on the church building. We also joined the congregation as it celebrated high school graduations, met to bury those who had died, pray for those who were injured or facing hard times and share the life of a small community. It was a tradition in that congregation to close each worship service by singing together the hymn “Till We Meet Again:”

Till we meet, till we meet
Till we meet at Jesus’ feet
Til we meet, till we meet,
God be with you till we meet again!

We sang it as we bid farewell to high school seniors leaving town for college. They almost never came back to live again. The town exported its youth to larger communities until one day, not long after we had moved from that town, the high school closed. Three decades after we had moved the small church ran out of members and no longer was able to continue worshiping. By that time we had returned to celebrate the centennial of the congregation, to hear the bell ring once more and to sing the song with the few old timers who were left. Over the next few years we made occasional treks up the 165 miles from our home in Rapid City to officiate at the funeral of another member of the congregation. After a service at the church, we’d head half a mile east and 1 mile south of the town to the cemetery on the west side of the road. We sang the song standing on the windy hillside of Rose Hill Cemetery under the metal sign welded by Tex Byers and his sons. Tex’s body was laid to rest there not far from the graves of his parents, Marge and Benton. Later his wife Bev was buried next to him. There are a lot of other names we know on the stones in that cemetery: Hansons and Conrad’s and Bakers and Andersons, Bohnes and Frandsens, Hofflands and Knutson, Olsons and Sacks, Wagners and Wothes.

That song comes to my mind on other occasions when I remember those days and those people, but also sometimes out of the blue as I am working at the farm or paddling my kayak on the bay. I’ll find myself humming it when I’m checking on the bees or watering the garden.

I’m still confident that God is with those we love till we meet again.

This week, and many others, I have another song that keeps playing in my mind. It is another old hymn, not completely politically correct, with some language that is a bit dated. That happens with songs that have been around for a long time. This song’s words and tune keep playing in my mind as I walk and work and go through my days:

Bind us together, Lord, bind us together
with cords that cannot be broken
Bind us together, Lord, bind us together,
Bind us together with love.

At the Lummi Island Congregational Church it is a tradition for the congregation to stand and hold hands in a circle in the center aisle of the church as they sing that song together. These days there will be a few members joining on Zoom and the iPad with the small images of those folks is moved to the head of the circle so they can see the congregation and the congregation can see them as together they sing. As the song ends a voice, usually from the Zoom, says, “And the people said . . .” and everyone responds, “Amen!”

The song, however, continues to ring in the hearts and minds of those who have worshiped. Its sentiment has already been fulfilled. In fact those who worship with that congregation are bound together. The island is not unlike the small town in North Dakota in many aspects. There are very few children. Folks can remember when there was a Church School and Vacation Bible School every summer, but there are no children for those events these days. The children have grown up and taken the ferry to the mainland and gone off to jobs and careers. When a house is sold on the island these days the new customers are almost always retired folks. Some come to the church, become involved, and help to keep things going. The congregation can no longer afford a full-time minister, but their part-time pastor is a great match for them. When the waves are high and the ferry cannot make the passage the congregation will still gather even if the pastor is on the other shore. They might not have a sermon, and there might not be anyone to play the piano, but they can still hold hands and sing, “Bind us together with love.”

We have only worshiped with the congregation a few times, but that song is already a part of our lives. We know a few of the names of the folks in the pews. And even the names of a few of the folks in the cemetery next to the church building. We look forward to opportunities to take the ferry to the island. When the weather is good we don’t really need our car on the island and we can just walk onto the ferry. The church is about a mile up from the ferry landing. Chances are pretty good that someone will stop and give us a ride before we have walked all the way.

And when we get back to the ferry and it heads across to Gooseberry Point, over the drum of the engine and the whistle of the wind we hear from our hearts, “Bind us together with love.”

Sometimes I think it calms the chickens and the honeybees when I sing it as I feed them. I know it calms me.