Ice Churches

Every winter, cars slowed down near my home in a small, Minnesota town. People would gape, point, and take pictures. Why? Because every year, old widower Matthews, my neighbor to the south, would take huge blocks of ice from the frozen pond behind his home. With the precision of an architect, he would build an ice church by the road. He would light up sections to make it look like it had stained glass windows.

Now, I’m not a religious man. I’ve been known to gamble, cuss, and drink. My mother, may she rest in peace, would say, “Evan Charles Kirby, you’d better clean up your mouth, or I’ll clean it for you.” When I was 14, she made good on her threat by shoving a bar of soap in my mouth.

Even a heathen such as myself, can appreciate the beauty of Mr. Matthew’s ice churches. The year of 9/11, he made two steeples to represent the twin towers, and lit the whole thing with red, white, and blue lights. Other years, he would use whatever colors suited his mood. He seemed to favor green lights – green with yellow, blue or red, or a mix.

I didn’t know how he built the structures until one year, when I got the flu. I was in the kitchen downing some medicine, when I heard a chainsaw. Out my kitchen window, I saw Mr. Matthews sawing away at the pond. When a block – about a cubic foot – was loose, he slid it with giant tongs onto a waiting plastic sled. He strapped it in place next to two others and dragged the load toward the road. He slipped twice, catching himself both times. The whole procedure looked tedious for just a few blocks of ice. Why hadn’t I ever considered the effort he put into his work before that moment?

Two days later, I was feeling better, and my sister brought over a dozen muffins from Rose’s Bakery where she worked. Knowing I wouldn’t finish them myself, I decided to share with my neighbor. Having hardly said two words to him before, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

When his door creaked open, his face lit up. “Evan, young man, come in, come in.” I noticed his well-creased crow’s feet. Clearly, the man smiled a lot.

“Hello, Mr. Matthews. I brought blueberry muffins.”

“Beautiful! Please, call me Paul.” He led me into the kitchen. “I’ll make a pot of coffee.” He pointed to the table. “Have a seat.”

I noticed the table, and pretty much everything else, looked worse for the wear. But, the place was neat and clean. I’d never been great at small talk, but I gave it a go. “Mr., um, Paul, what was your career?”

“Oh, I thought you knew. I am a Marine. I served in Vietnam as well as Desert Storm. I made Colonel and put in 25 years. Some of it was the stuff of nightmares. I never told my beloved Cindy how tough it was. God rest her soul.” He paused, looking up at the ceiling, then continued, “In a way, it turned out to be a good thing that Cindy couldn’t have children. We moved around so much. I tried to make up for it when I retired. We had many wonderful years before the Lord saw fit to take her into His arms.” He poured the water into the coffee machine. “But enough about that. How is your computer programming going?”

My mouth dropped open. I don’t know how he knew about my job. I regained my composure. “It’s going well. I just finished a big project for a gaming company. I felt like a kid, testing it out.” He chuckled.

There was a faint knock on the door. Paul got up and said, “Excuse me. That’s probably Rainee. She’s such a timid girl. When I found out she’s an artist, I told her I would give her some of Cindy’s old supplies. She’s been getting things a bit at a time.”

When I heard the door creak, I peeked around the corner. I recognized the girl in all black. She lived on the other side of Paul’s house. She always walked with a hood pulled low on her forehead and her nose to the ground. I heard other kids tauntingly call her “Stormy.” I never knew her real name was Rainee, or that she was an artist.

Paul returned with a painting on an 18 x 24 canvas. When he held it up, my eyes opened wide. It was a closeup of a white water lily, bordered by every color of the rainbow. I exclaimed, “SHE painted THAT? It’s striking!”

“Yes, sometimes adversity inspires creativity. You would not believe what that young lady has endured in her short life. I pray for her daily.” Paul pulled mugs from a cupboard and poured coffee. “How do you drink it?”

“Just a splash of milk, if you’ve got it. No sugar. Thanks.”

As we enjoyed the coffee and a muffin, I said, “Paul, I’ve been thinking that perhaps you’d like some help finishing your ice church this year.”

Paul’s smile stretched the boundaries of his crow’s feet. He patted me on the arm, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Thank you, Evan.”

And so, I helped Paul that day. It was hard work, but we made significant progress on the lower level, and I could see his vision.

The next day, I awoke to the sound of an ambulance. Rainee had returned for more art supplies and found Paul Matthews unresponsive. The hospital pronounced him dead on arrival. It was sad to lose a friend I had just discovered.

To honor Paul, I went back to work on the ice church that afternoon. Soon, I was joined by another neighbor. Then another. And another. All told, there must have been 12 of us working that day. It was great getting to know these people I had merely seen in passing. We used every bit of ice we could get from the pond, except one giant block, which Rainee claimed. Just as it was starting to get dark, she brought it back on a sled. She had carved an amazing angel.

We lit up the biggest ice church our town had ever seen, with a whole palette of color, but mostly green. The angel, which we placed in front, had gold lights aimed at it, two in front, two behind.

No one spoke as we admired our work. Some bowed heads. Some hugged. Most dabbed their eyes with their mitten-clad hands. I thought of how great a man Paul was to bring together people from all walks of life, even after he passed away. I was a better man for having known him, even for a short period of time. My heart told me that he was reunited with his beloved Cindy.