Video by Jessica Stewart

Photo by Jessica Stewart / St. Joseph News-Press / Purchase this photo

Mackintyre Kindol McDill-Garton’s photo sits among those gathered at his grandparents’ anniversary celebration inside his church. Mackintyre passed away last year, at the age of 9, after suffering a brain aneurysm. Since he was 6, he wanted to build a church. His family and friends came together to make it happen.

Folks gathered early, stepping inside but leaving on their coats. Many brought refreshments for the table in back. Some chatted moist-eyed.

A fellow maneuvered Folgers grounds into a coffee machine and, minutes later, proclaimed the output “a little stout.” A second critic suggested the brew could walk on its own.

Musicians excused their way past the guests, carrying guitar cases and an upright bass. They would provide the soundtrack, bluegrass and gospel played in celebration on an afternoon recalling the worst kind of sadness.

Stacey Garton greeted everyone, smiling as tears battled her mascara. She awaited this day for the dream it fulfilled. She marveled at the kindnesses that raised these walls.

In back of the joy and wonder, the mother accepts the mystery that never leaves.

Why did her son insist for three years that a church be built on his grandfather’s farm? Why did a brain aneurysm claim her healthy boy at age 9? Why did the death of a Clinton County child so move people in far-flung locales that they would help realize the boy’s wish?

This day commingles the emotions, high and low. On this day, folks come to dedicate Mackintyre’s Church.

Mary Speaks steps to a microphone and, the sextet in accompaniment, begins singing.

On the wings of a snow white dove

He sends His pure sweet love.

The Rev. Gene Cole calls the hilltop church holy ground and the service a sacred occasion.

“God’s love is greater than the power of death,” the minister says. “The light that Mackintyre shines ... will continue to shine through this church and through you people gathered for this dedication.”

Nearly 100 people cram into the church, as many standing as seated. Despite the rawness of the day, the double doors in back are opened so the 30 or so guests outside can hear.

Mrs. Garton stands in back of the pews, pleased at the sight. When she walks to the front to speak briefly, a mother’s instinct takes over, wanting to take care of everyone. Help yourself to refreshments. Enjoy the music and the grounds.

Mackintyre, she tells the crowd, would have loved this.

***

Stacey Garton flinches not a bit when asked about Sept. 12, 2008. “I relive it every day,” she says.

Mackintyre Kindol McDill-Garton, three weeks after his ninth birthday, awoke with a headache. His mother figured a cold, maybe an onset of allergies.

When the third grader’s pain worsened and he vomited, Mrs. Garton called an ambulance to their home six miles southeast of Plattsburg.

She had worked as an EMT, quitting in part because of the emotional toll of pediatric calls. Now, in her own emergency, her son’s breathing shallow then gone, she and Mackintyre’s father, Glen, a law enforcement officer, turned to their training and performed CPR.

Had her husband been a brain surgeon, Stacey tells herself, he could not have saved their son. Doctors at Liberty Memorial Hospital pronounced Mackintyre dead before 9 a.m.

The mind races. The mother held her son and thought of his uniqueness. Mackintyre, sweet and joyful, with a luminous smile, had some willful moments. He would remove doorknobs from doors. His parents could never shake him from playing with electricity. Once, they discovered him stacking bricks atop his backyard playhouse. It’s a steeple, the boy told them.

At age 6, Mackintyre asked to build a church on the farm. The boy loved going to Holt United Methodist Church, loved the songs, loved the worship. He embraced older members of the congregation, talked to them as if an adult himself.

When the boy talked of church construction, his parents thought it precocious, then dismissed it. But Mackintyre persisted. He set aside $1,036, money he got for holidays and birthdays, for the building.

He and his grandmother, Nancy McDill, would ride four-wheelers on the hill behind their homes on the McDill farm. Mackintyre picked out the spot for the church, saying it would look down on his house and his grandfather’s barns.

Stacey Garton held her son that last time. It dawned on her. “He’s going to have his church,” she said.

***

Cobert K. McDill, whom friends call Mac, bought the land when Stacey was 6 months old. In heavy rains, like those that fell on the Friday Mackintyre died, a usually dry creek cuts off a gravel path that leads up the hill to a back portion of the acreage.

Once the road became dry enough, work began on building the church. A gazebo-type meditation area was considered. Then, an 8-by-10 building with a couple of pews.

But the construction design took shape from a birdhouse-sized church Mackintyre built, complete with white siding and red roof.

With concrete poured and walls erected, all with volunteer help, the problems got solved through seeming providence. Every time a need arose, someone called to fill it.

The pitch of the roof seemed a hazard, but a man and his son showed up to put down the plywood sheeting, and men from a Knights of Columbus group finished the roof in a single frigid day.

When a retaining wall was needed, people with expertise and materials came. Same thing with carpeting. Mrs. Garton wanted curved pews. Some were hanging in a barn in Kansas. A man who moved to the area from Michigan not a year ago stepped forward to help restore them.

People viewed a Web site about the church’s progress, some signing in from England and the Philippines. Volunteers seemed to drop from the sky.

At the church site constantly was Mr. McDill, bolting this and anchoring that, no matter the weather.

“It makes me feel so good to know that little boy was capable of touching that many people,” the grandfather says. “He was an exception.”

***

The musicians continue to play Saturday, the dedication service over but not really. They move through “I’m Using My Bible For A Road Map” and launch into “The Master’s Garden.”

People visit with one another, digging into the cookie trays and warming to the coffee, now tamed a bit. Glen Garton stands outside the front door, amazed at the gathering on the chilled afternoon. “I didn’t know if 20 people would come or 100,” he says.

Jodi Robinson steps into the crisp wind and can neither stop smiling nor weeping. The day after Mackintyre died, the family friend went to Stacey with a check matching the boy’s savings. “Build the church,” she told her.

“I’m sure he is shining down and watching this, and he’s giddy,” Mrs. Robinson says after the dedication.

Mrs. Garton calls the church construction a Heaven-sent distraction, a means of helping her grieve. She still has bad days, but the mother doesn’t worry about the church.

“I don’t know what to do with a church. But I don’t have to know what to do with a church,” she says. “God’s going to make this church be what He wants it to be.”

People who come to the church will take away something different than what they came with, the mother says. A boy who died too young will continue to change lives.

That remains the gift of Mackintyre’s Church.

Ken Newton can be reached

at kenn@npgco.com.