Dear Editor:

I never met a lady named Betty I didn’t love; we’ll get to that later. This is the story of a little white church on a hill. The church was the dream of pastor Raymond Thacker and his disciples. New Richmond is like too many Ohio towns where drug abuse and alcoholism destroy families and children take the full impact. In Ohio, we have federal, state, and local programs: WIC, SNAP, housing, energy assistance… we care. Some children still hang their heads in classes wearing shoddy, torn tennis shoes; ashamed of their ragged jeans.

Raymond Thacker and his disciples had the little white church on the hill… and compassion. Every school year they gave clothes and shoes to these children. Each summer they took these kids to Kings Island. Sundays a white van gathered some of these ragamuffins who were fed donuts, cookies, and fruit drinks at the little white church.

A little white church on the hill. Maybe it doesn’t mean so much now that Pastor Thacker has passed on. Then again, maybe it means a lot to a few tassel-headed rug-rats who had their lovely red or brown hair combed at Sunday school instead of before. Maybe it means a lot to me; Raymond Thacker was my uncle.

Betty loves Raymond… loved him in life, clings to her memory of a man who placed faith before even themselves and their children; just ask them. Betty has been expatriated from the church she, her husband, her family, and their friends built. If you saw the signs: “What about Betty?” or “I support Betty,” and wondered what was going on, or even if you saw the police cars or the sheriff telling me to leave; now you know. The little white church on the hill rejected it’s matron.

Reverend Raymond Thacker was careful with money; most of his disciples would admit they quietly called him a tight-wad at least once; my wife and I did; she no doubt even to his face. Hillbilly, holy-roller, tight-wad; call him what you want; he and his disciples have heard it before. The hill wasn’t always a part of New Richmond; the first New Richmond Church of God had like all of New Richmond been flooded each time the Ohio broke over her banks. The old members built a hill to construct a new church upon.

That old tight-wad and those who loved him and trusted him with matters of faith contacted the Beckjord power plant with an idea. Truck after truck wheeled into New Richmond dumping the ash that hours before had lit your homes, building the hill the little white church sits upon. Faith built that hill, not money. Not bad for a hillbilly.

Muscle joined faith; some things were contracted, but many nails, brush strokes, and shovel-loads were powered by the blue-collar life skills of the faithful themselves. Old women crocheted shawls and throws; yard sales happened; cakes were baked and sold; in an unbelievably short time a brand new church on a brand new hill in a river-town that needed a little love was owned free and clear buy those few faithful and their God. The local priest joined the pentecostal congregation celebrating paying off the mortgage; he gave the opening prayer at the reconsecration ceremony. I was impressed to see catholic and protestant standing side-by-side, celebrating, sharing the basic foundation of their faith and applying it to their town.

The little church on the hill was financially sound, with a pristine credit rating, and an openness that could be considered a standard of measure. Financial security, in a business, home, or church relies on accounting transparency between the managing members and Reverend Thacker kept his office door and all registries open.

Ah there’s the rub. As we know the love of money is the root of destruction. My uncle Reverend Thacker most recently left us. My aunt Betty suffers with her loss. The little white church on the hill’s members are no longer disciples of an age wizened spiritual friend and CFO. As did those ancient disciples, they wandered without direction until a new pastor came.

Raymond Sparks was awarded the job. The trouble came over money. My aunt asked about a sizable check written on the church’s account to a female church member, of which Betty as a board member was previously unaware. She was soundly rebuffed’

She was angry, vocal, and her feelings were hurt. She took the picture of her late husband down, picked up his bible, and left. Other board members were offended that their holy relics were removed from the church. After missing two services, Aunt Betty returned to church and was told she was no longer on the council. Other council members have since been relieved of their seats.

Sunday the 19th of April of this year, Betty with friends and family attended morning service hoping to learn the current board’s composition, if the long-standing bylaws had been followed in expelling members, and if any of her friends could witness the scheduled afternoon board meeting.

The New Richmond police were called and an officer began clearing the church of deposed members. About this time I managed to greet Mr. Sparks, shake his hand, and ask him if it wouldn’t be more sensible to open the books, address the check, and begin healing the church.

Obeying the officer I retreated to the parking lot. A highway patrol-man had arrived as well as a sheriff’s deputy. Mr. Sparks instructed the deputy to eject, among others, my wife and myself. The others included several gently weeping old women.

Mr. Sparks please open your books, reach out and repatriate those deposed members, and heal the little white church on the hill. As you know a divided house will not stand and there can be no divine guidance toward the destruction of a church built by faith, sweat, and a determination to help feed and clothe the poorest children.

I never met a lady named Betty I didn’t love and if you pass my aunt on the street, please hug sister Betty.

Clyde Fraley