Fellowship of the Saints

What does fellowship of the saints mean?

Does it mean going to Church every Sunday? Does it mean helping your neighbor build his barn? I have wondered about this idea for many years because I have longed for fellowship. There are personality types that get recharged by fellowship and I am one of those people. Now, when we look at the Book of Acts, Fellowship was a daily thing for the brethren and sisters. Followers of Jesus spent time together breaking bread and helping out. I am guessing the community of believers talked about everything going on in furthering the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am guessing there were times of prayer, confession, and all kinds of healing regarding the daily needs of the believers.

When my husband and I were visiting his homeland of Wales, we encountered fellowship. Wherever we went, we met folks in such a way that there was a transparency and an instant camaraderie that I will never forget. It was in that transparency that our souls met–we glimpsed something in each other that touched us and made an impression. Near Pentre Ifan Wales, my husband and I visited a Manor that was a part of his family history from the fifteenth century. When we walked into the pub it was like walking into any other pub in Wales; the local folks were gathered, drinking pints, laughing, and talking. My husband asked about the history of the place–and was politely handed a little book on the subject. Then suddenly the room got very quiet after my husband asked in Welsh if anyone spoke Welsh. The owner of the manor became visibly touched when my husband told him his last name. I could see years of memories flash across the owner’s face. This is when I saw the man’s soul. I had the impression that we touched something deep within his heart.

My husband began to share his upbringing in a Welsh community in the US–at the time it was our belief that my husband was actually a distant relative of the original owner of the manor. The present owner became rather overcome with emotion and I noticed the entire atmosphere in the pub became very focused on my husband. The owner said repeatedly, “I have stories. If you could stay, I have stories.” Once my husband began to sing a Welsh hymn, I noticed tears in the owner’s eyes. I said to him, “You are rather touched aren’t you?” The owner kissed my hand.

It was in this exchange, that may have lasted a half of an hour in this ancient pub that something was imparted between all of us; we encountered history, we transcended generations, and above all we touched fellowship. The locals saw something special happening. A long lost relative from a distant land had arrived and had we known beforehand we would end up at this place, there may have been many pints drunk, laughter echoing through the halls, a few more tears shed, and lots and lots of stories.