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Thirty years ago, the watch I wore was a reminder of each house I had painted in the past year. The piebald splotches on the leather band eliminated it from my Sunday-go-to-meetin' options, but the latex stains brought back memories.

In those days I paced myself with a Timex. How long would the scraping take? Could the primer be on by noon? Should I trim out a window while the first coat on the door dried? Checking the time now and then also added a little motivation and a competitive nudge.

Yet when I painted at the church, time was not as important. I rarely had a specific deadline, and visitors greeted me often. A cyclist might need water. Friends came for conversation. Setting the brush aside and talking for a while was a part of the painting ritual at the Sandcreek-Azalia Friends Meetinghouse.

If no one stopped by, I was hardly alone. There was always time to interrupt the work by playing the "who used to" game as I moved ladders and tarps. Who used to sit on this row or that one? Who used to seem confused if someone new occupied "their" seat? Who used to pray out loud the longest or provide the best special music? Once I started asking the questions, it was only polite to answer.

Mr. Carpenter shared a few hymns by playing his harmonica and banjo at the same time. Our daughter April stood near the piano when she sang for God and her granddad, the minister. Mr. and Mrs. Engle sat near the front on the right. In the back Madge Gillespie listened to the sermon with a Dutcher twin on each side of her.

Paul Galbraith liked to read poems, and Olive Anderson once scared the daylights out of me during silent worship. I shuddered the day she announced that she would start a prayer and then call others to continue it. I passionately implored that, if she ever knew it, she would not remember my name. God was gracious.

Mr. States once pledged from the pulpit that he would fast until someone came down front and made a commitment to the Lord. He might have wasted away, but my mother could not stand the thought of anyone being hungry.

Obviously, there were other guests besides the ghosts of Sunday's past. Needy travelers inquired about assistance, and historians of all ages came to ask about the Underground Railroad.

One Saturday I was touching up window frames in the sanctuary when a writer from the Indianapolis Star inquired about Chuck Taylor, the guy whose name is on Converse Chucks. Because he was deep into his research, Abraham Aamidor knew that Chuck Taylor had lived in the Azalia in the early 1900's when his father was the elementary principal.

The writer believed that the basketball entrepreneur was among the first businessmen to hire African Americans as company executives. He wondered if Mr. Taylor might have been influenced by this church when his family lived in the community.

It did not take long to examine the meeting’s attendance records for the early decades of the twentieth century, but no Taylors were mentioned. Mr. Aamidor's thoughts and questions, however, gave me a lot to think about when I climbed back up the ladder.

I do not know that any of Chuck Taylor's decisions were affected by the Quaker community, but what if being in Azalia made a difference. What if people then or any of us now influence how others develop. We do at times, but will we ever know how much?

Months prior to Mr. Aamidor's visit, a pilgrimage brought a tired traveler to our church. Hearing an unexpected, soft tapping, I answered the door that Sunday. The man might have been ninety. Barely breathing, he staggered inside. After a glass of water and the heart medication, his condition improved, but I was not sure how long that would last.

He had driven from Bardstown, Kentucky, to visit the church he had occasionally visited as a boy. His uncle, a Columbus barber, had driven him to the Azalia meetinghouse. He shared that he had reflected all week on the places in his life that reminded him of family and of peaceful times. Ultimately, he felt led to Azalia, Indiana.

Since it had been seriously damaged by the smoke of an annex fire, the sanctuary was not available for our service. Instead, we were using the rebuilt annex until the rest of the renovation was completed. Disappointed but determined, the elderly soul assured me that the mess would not bother him and that he would be very grateful if he could spend some time in the actual worship area.

For half an hour he sat in silence on a smoked-covered pew as the morning light filtered through the stained glass. He had no physical fellowship, but I do not think he was alone that day. I understood.

Each of us has time and talents to share. We have moments to invest in others that may not be forgotten. A few might make a difference. Hopefully some spectral residue of our presence will be remembered like the old man’s uncle and my ghosts of Sunday's past.

Adapted from Legacy, pages 162-164, Daffodils and Dog-ears