The small church in the river town of Newport looks like a porcelain church you’d put in a Christmas village. Its white facade is dotted with tall green windows, with arched green doors in the center and a green gabled roof above. All that’s missing is an oversized wreath with a red bow.
It was built in 1868 as a Baptist church and was similar in size and design to other country churches of the time. However, when the church ceased to exist, it was given another sacred purpose: it was filled with books and became the town library.
It seems like a miracle that the library is still open five days a week.
You can feel the history as soon as you step inside. The church library has the sound of creaking floorboards and the smell of old books. It has two floors of books, with the top floor being a wraparound loft where rocking chairs swing by the windows. There are plenty of reading nooks, including a cozy spot under the stairs.
The entire book collection has been donated—and donations continue to pour in, adding to the enduring sense of goodwill. Classics like the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew sit alongside historical novels like Dear America and American Girl. Even the community offerings feel old-fashioned, from the Cursive Club to the puzzle rentals. Visitors who read for 15 minutes receive a free snack and join the Munch Bunch.
The activities that take place here are not too different from those that took place in the early years. On Wednesday afternoons, the adult crafters meet. On Saturdays, families come for story time. On Mondays after school, tutoring is offered. These are the missions of the church: to make something beautiful, to hear a great story, to feel less left behind.
The people who meet for cribbage at 10 a.m. on Tuesdays swap strategies on how best to skip a long, winding path. The Introvert’s Book Club devotes an hour every Monday morning to silent reading because, as the website says, “participants find that just reading together keeps them focused on their book.”
This is a space for community in all its forms – today as it was in 1868.
“I think when the children are here,” says the librarian, “they won’t cause any trouble.”
She greets two sweaty prepubescent boys who park their bikes in front of the door and sit down at the computers.
The little church library feels like a balm, a hidden gem whose very existence is a comfort, counteracting the many ways in which modern life isolates us. COVID has made us less sociable. So have the little glowing screens that pretend the whole world is at the touch of a button.
It is no coincidence that community and communion have the same origin. As Catholics, we believe that the highest communion is mediated through Holy Communion. When Mass is celebrated, heaven touches earth. The communion of saints flocks to the altar: Doctors of the Church, gardeners, librarians, children, the beloved parish priest who married your great-grandparents.
We sing. We pray. We kneel and wait and marvel. And in the process we are fed.
It is a sacrament that does not exist anywhere else and cannot exist anywhere else. And we need it, no matter how much secular culture may tell us otherwise.
Summer is a time to relax, slow down and immerse ourselves. When we connect with others, we are renewed. We replenish the reserves that will help us get through the winter.
As in the church library by the river, we can engage in simple communal activities at this time of year – playing cribbage and crafts, doing puzzles side by side, reading together in silence. Then we join the community of saints in Holy Communion, where the bonds are eternal.
Capecchi is a freelance writer based in Inver Grove Heights.
