The Chinese New Year holiday has passed in peace and contentment.
My parents are in good health, their spiritual lives are flourishing, and our family is united. No one brings up my marital status—when relatives mention matchmaking, others quickly interrupt. Instead, we spend our time together, playing games until late into the night. Conversations with my parents and grandmother are filled with gentle words and the presence of the Holy Spirit.
It's a joyful holiday, so I didn't expect any profound reflections. After all, profound thoughts often arise from pain and sorrow. They come from empathetic hearts and shared experiences. When pain is no longer present, it seems natural for people to think less deeply.
It wasn't until the fifth day of the Lunar New Year, listening to a Sunday sermon, I was reminded that there were still details lingering in my heart, worthy of being recorded.
Coal Mines and Villages
My family is in a county in North China, closely tied to coal mining. If to write the history of this place, besides the county office housing the thousand-year-long history prison, coal mining would be impossible to leave out. The village where I grew up is deeply affected by the mining industry. In the 1970s, a state-owned mine was established less than 500 meters from my hometown, and during its peak, Japanese experts even visited. In addition to this state mine, there were numerous smaller private mines around.
The mine brought wealth not just to the mine owners, but also to contractors, workers in the pits, those driving machines underground, and guards on the ground. Nearby farmers could also pick up some coal and sell it for money.
Most of the miners were from other parts of China, including many from Sichuan. They often rented rooms near the mine, where we hosted three people at different times—a married couple or a single man. Some miners spent their earnings on alcohol, while others sent money back home to their children, but they all loved to tell jokes, play cards, eat spicy dishes, and talk about the river and the mountain next to their homes.
In the pits, there was no distinction between day and night, with three shifts rotating. They worked in coal dust for eight hours, earning 10 yuan per hour. The working machine didn’t stop, even if the workers did. When my relatives first visited, they complained about the loud noises from the mines late at night. We didn’t hear them, we just slept. To this day, we still don’t know which part of the mining process caused those loud sounds.
During the Spring Festival, the mine owners would set off massive fireworks. The fireworks were so grand that, standing on the roof, you could see them light up half the sky. The sparks would hang in the air, refusing to fall down.
On the first day of the festival, my brother took his children back to our hometown to show them the place where we grew up. The state mine was still the landmark of the area, and the three coal silos could be seen from miles away.
It didn’t seem as tall as I remembered, and for the first time, I noticed the decorative carvings on the windows. A new blue shed stood next to it, and the main gate had been renovated with a fresh coat of blue paint. The place seemed more organized now.
Next to the coal silos, there were rows of houses. The walls has collapsed, and the brick gates barely resembled our old home. The entire village seemed like a giant pot—surrounded by tall mountains, with the center lower and hollowed out. The elders always said the ground below was hollowed out.
I don’t remember exactly when, but cracks began to appear in the walls, widening to the size of a palm. The villagers, after receiving compensation, relocated to a small town several dozen miles away. Only a few elderly remained, accompanied by wild dogs. Outsiders came and left, disappearing just as quickly as they arrived.
My niece picked up a small stone from the ground, and it turned out to be pure coal. This very coal, which had sustained our ancestors, was something she didn’t even recognize.
Villages and Churches
Next to our village was another formed by the families of coal mine workers. Alongside it was the busiest street in the area, filled with various street foods, clothes, and necessities for the new year. At the end of this street was the church where I had been attending Sunday services since childhood.
People from the surrounding villages come to this street to shop and to this church to worship. Because of the Sunday gatherings, I met some friends and heard that the weekly cleaning notices were for different groups in different villages. I realized that in addition to my small village, there are many people in the east, south, west, and north.
On Christmas Eve, the church would be crowded, with people squeezing in to escape the cold winter. It felt like the church was a swollen stomach, constantly pushing people out. In the early 2000s, we decided to build a new church building. This was a proud moment for everyone. Uncles would proudly say they had helped with the steel framing. The choir aunties, in their forties, could still easily climb the scaffolding, and they must also call the men in their family—whether they believe in the Lord or not, they are all acquaintances in the church.
The new church, three stories tall and painted in blue, stood out among the red bricks and white walls. The old wooden double doors were replaced with four transparent glass doors. The ceiling resembled a grand hall, with crystal chandeliers of various shapes hanging down. The entrance directly faced the cross on the altar, with the words "The Source of All Things" (万有真源) inscribed on either side. The building was fully equipped with lighting, air conditioning, microphones, and sound systems. For a rural church, it was more impressive than many towns. It only cost seven or eight hundred thousand, because all the building materials and manpower were donated by believers.
Moving, studying, and working, I haven't been back to my hometown church for service for more than ten years. Every visit requires significant travel. It was too early for buses, and I walked to another town to catch a ride. After twenty minutes, the bus dropped me off on the east side of the street, but my destination was on the west. The cold morning walk felt like a series of choices with every step.
Like my parents, many people now attend church near their new homes, as “where you worship doesn’t matter, it’s all God's house.” Although the Sunday service still begins with early morning prayer at 6:30 AM, if you came at 7 AM before, back in the days, you had to find acquaintances to squeeze in, but now it is not a problem to arrive at 9 AM.
The choir aunties on the left and right of the pulpit haven’t changed much, though they are now in their fifties and sixties. The men on the left and the women on the right remain the same, but from the back row, there are fewer black-haired and more wearing elder hats.
The preacher has changed. I have intermittently heard that two middle-aged pastors passed away due to sudden illnesses, one from a heart attack and the other from a stroke. I still remember one uncle’s testimony of swearing three times, breaking his vows three times, and then repenting and returning to the Lord. Yet, he is now gone, leaving behind rumors that the father is unkind and the son is unfilial. A sister who had studied abroad at a theological seminary could no longer preach because she was unable to obtain a preaching certificate. The church, which once had so many preachers that some couldn’t even secure a time slot for Sunday sermons, now has only one seminary graduate who has been graduated for two years.
After the service, some of the aunties recognized me. They hesitated at first, but I approached them to start the conversation. It was a role reversal, with me now putting my arm around their shoulders. As they age, their status in the family and the church has shifted. The confident, loud voices of the past are gone, replaced by a learned humility.
I remember seeing them perform in white choir robes, playing golden instruments in front of the celebration tents, dancing on stage, twirling fans, performing skits, and saying funny lines, all while bustling around in the kitchen for revival meetings, urging us to eat up the fatty meat.
When they were in their prime, the church was also in its prime. Now that they have grown old, it seems the church has aged as well. I miss the days when they were young, fervently preaching the gospel, arguing, bickering, simple and clumsy, but strong and passionate. Now, they have become timid, and it feels like the church I loved has grown evasive as well.
Still Hopeful in the Spring Breeze
Despite all the challenges, the foundation remains. Leaving my hometown, I realize that hardship is a familiar part of this land’s story. Everyone talks about the lack of spirit in recent years, but the pastors and believers in my home still hold firm: “All of this is for God’s purpose.” Obedience, patience, and perseverance are the faith characteristics of this place. Isn’t this what we’ve always known?
Two years ago, when I returned after a long leave, a newly seminary graduate sister told me, instead of complaining and fearing the future, that the church and pastors should reflect on the past decade of ministry. It was time to turn back to the foundational truths of the Bible. In early 2023, with the pandemic just over, local church leaders were already working under pressure to reopen spiritual gatherings and ensure their flock wasn’t left hungry.
Even though the churches have merged and distances have increased, the elderly still find places to gather, with some even walking an hour to attend services. Although my hometown church now only has one resident pastor, the local Christian leadership has effectively coordinated pastor resources, ensuring that all areas of the county are covered, with preachers from different towns rotating between villages. Believers can attend services nearby and hear sermons from "good preachers" from different places. Some are profound, others more down-to-earth with local flavor, some offer advice, and others encourage.
Even without a preaching certificate, one can still serve. The theology student has made the youth fellowship lively and vibrant, full of energy. The young people in the fellowship, mostly just coming of age, are different from those who were once coerced or begged to come to church. They now have a stronger thirst for knowledge, and in an unstable time that sweeps across their peers, they naively cling to something steady like a foundation stone.
On the first day of the Chinese New Year, the church always has an event. The organizers are the generation who grew up in the lively church, from the childhood study classes to the "repentance classes" in Wenzhou, to theological seminaries in the province, outside the province, and abroad. Some have moved away, some have scattered due to livelihood issues, but those who stayed are carrying the baton. They grew up under the care of the older aunties and now serve this new generation of young people who are still growing. Games like arrow throwing, red envelope sticking, and Q&A competitions bring joy to the children, and the adults, happily taking photos and applauding, share in the fun.
On the sixth day of the Spring Festival, I returned to work, knowing that, far from home, I had joined yet another “hometown” church, where I continue to grow and contribute. Meanwhile, in my childhood home, a three-day spiritual retreat is taking place, as the church continues to move forward in faith.
