Smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. Chances are when you read the title of this post you knew exactly what I was talking about. That odd bouquet of faded red or blue hymnals, old yellowed paper and slight undertones of hand sweat.
I miss that smell. It’s what church smells like to me. Worship music splashed on video screens doesn’t have a smell. “How great is our God” won’t create a memory that transports me back to a time when I was a kid and the hymnal was heavy and my heart was light. If Andy Stanley ever reads this blog I hope he’ll bring back hymnal smell at North Point.
If I get rich and famous, please know that I will create a cologne and perfume that smell like old hymnals. (The perfume will be called “for hymnal.”) Guys can wear it if they want to meet a nice Christian girl with a good old school church upbringing. Girls can wear it if they want to marry a pastor.
In the meantime, I think I am going to find a small church down the street, attend some Sunday morning and roll around in a bunch of hymnals when no one is looking like Scrooge McDuck in his money vault. And I’ll probably take one too. (I know, stealing a hymnal is no good, but I’m like Christian Bale’s character in “Newsies,” I’m just out here trying to survive and get to Santa Fe.) When I get my hymnal, I’m going to hang it from the rear view mirror of my car.
And then I will drive happy.