There’s a small, silver-colored church on Detroit’s eastside. It’s housed in a simple square building with a cinder block addition that was added over time. Based on the old tile roof, the brickwork, and its location on a sidestreet that ends at Mack Avenue, I’m thinking it was originally built as a gas station, probably in the 1930s or 40s.
I’ve ridden my bicycle past the small, unassuming place for many years, and for as long as I can remember it’s always been used as a church. What’s interesting to me about the little building on Mack is that it seems to never change. The small silver church and the surrounding grounds have always been well maintained. The tiled roof, with its shiny tin colored silver paint and the building’s matching brick walls, always look fresh. As if it was painted yesterday.
I never see any activity as I pass by, no matter the day of week or the time of day. There’s never anyone painting the walls, cleaning the surround small parking lot, or trimming the grass along the street or next to the place. It appears as if time has stopped and is now stuck on this small building. Because of its bright metallic, silvery color, the place seems to glow in the sunlight, much like white ashes on a dying fire, barely hanging onto its meager existence.