by Deborah LeFalle
I grew up on West 58th Street in Los Angeles, California during an era when neighbors looked out for one another, children played outside in summer until dark, and borrowing a cup of sugar was commonplace. Our neighborhood consisted of modest craftsman homes, industrial businesses adjacent to the Slauson Avenue railroad tracks, and small storefront establishments of various types. Of all the storefronts I remember, there was one in particular that stood out. It was a tiny Pentecostal church situated on the corner of West 55th Street and Denker Avenue. Since our family did not own a car we mostly walked where we needed to go; and my sisters and I would get an earful whenever we had occasion to pass by this church on a Sunday afternoon or evening. We would hear jubilant sounds of hand clapping, foot stomping, piano playing, tambourine beating, and voices singing, shouting, wailing, praising, and talking-in-tongue (though we did not know what this was at the time). The whole building seemed to rock. From up to a block away in either direction we knew in an instant when a worship service was underway. The double entrance doors were positioned diagonally to the corner roughly ten feet from the curb, and I always wanted to stop and peek inside but could never muster up the courage.
My earliest recollection of exposure to religion dates back to Bowen Memorial Methodist Church on Trinity Street in the Historic South-Central neighborhood of L.A. Its architecture was exquisite – a prominent treasure of the community in which it sat. I vividly remember Reverend Bain’s sermons that would begin low-key and composed, then gradually combust into a full-fledged hallelujah session in preparation for the alter call that would follow. His black velvet robe would dance with vigor across the pulpit platform trying its darndest to keep up with his high-energy gestures displayed in delivering the morning’s message. I especially liked Sunday School at Bowen because we got to color Bible story pictures and have tasty snacks if we were good. But when my aunt departed Bowen to follow Rev. Bain to another congregation he would lead, so went our transportation.
Our family next found our way to Pilgrim Congregational Church on Normandie Avenue off 46th Street, within walking distance of our home. We met new friends, and my mother even taught Sunday School there. A pleasant and memorable experience, but with Mom’s longing to be back in the midst of the Methodist tradition, we eventually followed Rev. Bain as well and settled in at Vermont Square United Methodist Church on Budlong and Vernon Avenues. By now we had our first family car, a VW Bug. Since neither of my parents were drivers, my oldest sister who had just reached driving age and obtained her license was more than happy to shuttle us around. And although we had found our niche at Vermont Square and were very comfortable at this progressive church, thoughts of that tiny Pentecostal church on 55th and Denker never left my mind.
I moved away from home after high school to attend college up north in San Jose. With newfound independence, organized religion took a back seat to my young adult collegiate life and I stopped going to church for a while. When I resumed attending church again several years later, it was at a Southern Baptist church where I remained for the next two decades. This church, however, was way on the other side of town and I yearned to find a church closer in – preferably in my immediate neighborhood within walking distance. For me, there is something very spiritual about walking to a place of worship.
Some 30 years after first arriving in my new city, I found Lighthouse Community Church and it found me. Now closed, it was a small church right down the street from my home. Although many moons had come and gone since my childhood experiences, I never forgot my growing years in Los Angeles. And that curiosity about the goings-on behind those storefront doors way back when? Interestingly, Lighthouse was of the Pentecostal faith… and I was exultant I finally got the chance to peek inside!
Deborah LeFalle is a former college educator who started writing in her retirement. Besides writing she enjoys being involved in the arts and humanities, digging into her family’s past, and spending time outdoors communing with nature. She resides in California’s Bay Area where she has authored two chapbooks.