I attended one of the Lenten silent prayer times in the sanctuary this week. My mom and I sat out in the blustery sunshine for a while beforehand to get caught up on each other’s news, then when it was our time Doug Easton breezily waved us in like he was opening the door to his own home. Once inside there was a little busyness; hand sanitizing, temperature checks and a few whispered instructions about where to sit (that we immediately got wrong and were gently corrected.) The simple act of taking off jackets, hats and sunglasses made more of a racket than I thought possible in the impossibly quiet sanctuary.

Sitting on the familiar cushions, leaning against the bowed back of the pew that hits me in just the wrong spot, I set my eyes forward toward the chancel and anxiously awaited the wave of joy, nostalgia and elation of returning to my church home to wash over me. And I waited. It never came. Instead the sanctuary just stood there; strong, enduring, steadfast and quiet. Happy to see me, but not making a big fuss about my return. Although it sounds obvious, it wasn’t until that moment that it dawned on me: I have been away for nearly a year, but the sanctuary had been there the entire time; quietly doing its job of holding the space sacred and ready.

That afternoon I had to pray with my eyes wide open. As much as I tried, they wouldn’t shut. I scanned the space for something that was new or something old I’d never noticed and beside the brighter paint making the space more defined, I found nothing. It was all wildly familiar. I mean like crazy familiar; like I had just been there yesterday.

Quiet contemplation not being my strong suit, I was surprised that I didn’t want to leave when our allotted prayer time was up. I realized that my life has been so loud the last several months. I don’t know the last time I’ve experienced 20 minutes of silence. With a glance between us, we shuffled down the pew and quietly slipped out the exit. When donning our jackets again in the columbarium to avoid the cacophony of nylon and zippers echoing indoors, we both remarked how comforting it was that the place was so familiar. I know that my family, my church community and the world have all changed dramatically since the last time I “went to church.” And I understand we will never be the same, but I now know that my new self will feel quite at home in the sanctuary.  

– Submitted by Linda Orosz