Twenty Something / Christina Capecchi

The little church-library by the river

NEWPORT, MINN.—The little church in this river town looks like the kind of porcelain church you’d place in a Christmas village, its white siding dotted with tall green windows, centered by arched green doors and topped with a green gable roof. It lacks only an oversized wreath with a red bow.

Built in 1868 as a Baptist church, it was similar in size and structure to other country churches of the period. But when the faith community ceased to be, the church assumed another sacred purpose: It was filled with books and became the town library.

The fact that it still operates as a library today, open five days a week, feels like a miracle in itself.

The moment you step inside, you sense its history. The church-library sounds like creaky floorboards and smells like old books. It houses two floors of books, the upper level being a wraparound loft, where rocking chairs sway at window tops. There are reading nooks aplenty, including a cozy space beneath the staircase.

Its entire book collection was donated—and donations continue to roll in, contributing to the ongoing sense of goodwill. Classics like the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew are shelved alongside historical fiction such as Dear America and American Girl books. Even its community offerings feel old-timey, from Cursive Club to puzzle rentals. Visitors who read for 15 minutes receive a free snack, joining The Munch Bunch.

The activities held here aren’t all that different from the ones that ensued in its early years. On Wednesday afternoons, “Adult Crafters” gather. On Saturday, families come for “Storytime.” Tutoring is offered Mondays after school. These are functions of church: to make something beautiful, to hear a great story, to feel less behind.

Folks who meet for cribbage on Tuesdays at 10 a.m. swap strategies on how best to skip down a long, winding path. The “Introvert’s Book Club” devotes an hour every Monday morning to silent reading time because, as the website notes, “participants find that reading alone together keeps them focused on their book.”

This is a space for community, in all its forms—now just as surely as in 1868.

“I figure when kids are here,” says the librarian, “they’re staying out of trouble.”

She welcomes two sweaty pre-teen boys who drop their bikes at the door and hop on the computers.

The little church-library feels like a balm, a hidden gem whose very existence is a comfort, countering the many ways modern life isolates us. COVID made us less sociable. So do the small glowing screens that masquerade as the entire world at our fingertips.

It’s no mistake that community and communion share the same origin. As Catholics, we believe that the ultimate community is offered through holy Communion. When Mass is celebrated, heaven touches Earth. The communion of saints flock to the altar: doctors of the church, gardeners, librarians, children, the beloved parish priest who married your great grandparents.

We sing. We pray. We kneel and wait and wonder. And in the process, we are fed.

It is a sacrament that does not, cannot happen anywhere else. And we need it—no matter how much secular culture tells us otherwise.

Summer is a time for restoration, for slowing down and sinking in. When we connect with others, we are renewed. We replenish the reserves that will help us make it through the winter.

Like the church-library by the river, embrace simple communal pursuits this season—cribbage and crafts, puzzling side by side, reading together in silence. Then join the communion of saints at holy Communion, where the bonds are eternal.
 

(Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn.) †