When the walls came down
What a crumbling church taught me about memory, faith, and the spaces we hold sacred
There’s one story I reported on in my news career that still lingers in my heart — not because it was the most urgent, or the most sensational, but because it moved me in a way I didn’t expect.
I chased the lead myself: an old Pentecostal church in Dickinson County was being demolished. It had stood empty since the early 1980s, but before the wrecking ball arrived, the community came together to walk its halls one last time.
As a reporter, I had covered my fair share of breaking news and community features, but this story felt different.
The shots I captured still stay with me — the stained glass catching soft sunlight, the haunting silhouette of the church tower against a pale sky, the quiet reverence of people climbing a rotting staircase that had long since forgotten what joy felt like.
That story shook me.
I remember standing in the sanctuary, quietly asking myself, How did we, as a society, let it come to this?
How does a place that was once a cornerstone of worship become a forgotten relic?
I’ll probably never know the full answer. But in that moment, I made a promise to myself: Not my church. Not the one I’ve come to love.
At the time, I had just begun returning to my Roman Catholic faith. I was going to Mass again, re-learning the rituals, re-awakening something that had always been there — something that without holy intercession, might have slipped away forever.
My parish was never in danger of demolition—not even remotely, thank God. But through that story, I began to understand something deeper: how spiritual erosion creeps in. Quietly. Slowly. Often masked as “progress.” I had seen the toll it takes—how the gradual fading of faith in a culture breeds loneliness, disconnection, and eventually a kind of spiritual poverty. It doesn’t just happen to buildings. It happens to people, too. If we’re not careful—if we don’t stay intentional in our faith—it wears us down, piece by piece.
I thought about the COVID lockdowns and the way worship was treated like an afterthought. I remember the knot in my stomach reading reports of people being told they couldn’t gather to pray.
And I also remember feeling a flicker of hope when I heard South Dakota’s then-governor had prayed publicly at the capitol. It reminded me that faith — when lived boldly — can still lead.
As I reported on the closing chapter of that church’s story, I found myself reflecting on my own faith journey. That same year marked the beginning of my journalism career, a time when I was attending Mass each week and contemplating what truly gave my life meaning. In the crumbling walls of that old church, I witnessed more than just physical decay — I saw the silent toll of neglect, and the fading of something once sacred.
I saw people trying to carry pieces of it home. Salvaging stained glass, old hymnals, memories. Trying to preserve what they could.
And I thought: this is more than a building. This is a story about what happens when we stop nurturing the sacred.
Because faith isn’t just personal. It’s architectural. Communal. It is a generational inheritance we must cultivate for our children.
When a church crumbles — literally or metaphorically — something bigger falls with it.
Even now, years later, I still think about that story. I still picture the hollow echo of footsteps, the last few voices ringing out beneath a nearly caved-in roof, the ache of something too meaningful to throw away.
I never want to forget that feeling. Because that ache reminds me why I protect what still stands.
Not just the buildings.
But the belief.
The beauty.
The belonging.
If you’ve ever mourned a church, a tradition, or a sacred space that felt like home — I’d love to hear your story. Let’s keep sharing these moments, and honoring what matters most.
I believe stories like these still shape us — they remind us of what’s worth holding on to, and what we can let go of.
