"One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple. For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle and set me high upon a rock."
Psalm 27: 4 & 5
When I was a kid, my family went to church regularly. It was a home to me in many ways, a safe and loving place. That doesn't mean I always wanted to go there, like on Christmas morning when I'd rather be opening presents. But, often I relished being in God's house, watching the play of the stained glass colors on the carpet as the wind blew. When my mom was in the choir loft, it was a time to bond with my dad, to smell his aftershave, examine his suitcoat pockets or draw pictures with him on the bulletin.
When I sat with my mother, I was permitted to open the ladylike clutch that housed the embroidered handkerchief or the delicate comb. Hopefully, I would find a roll of Lifesavers, too. The rings on her left hand fascinated me as I contemplated the solemn vows behind them, for she never took them off. Everything back then seemed so large and strange and mysterious.
The sermons were (in my mind) long and boring so when the organ piped up, I loved to sing the hymns. I strove to hit the soprano notes along side my mother, who I thought should be a star soloist. The pastor seemed like God to me, so booming was his voice and his robes created a different persona than regular people.
Observing the enigmatic sacraments of communion and baptism were things I little understood, but one thing I did know: being at church was something quite special. It was a loving, restful place that represented a Presence that was larger than this life, even more deserving of respect than my parents or teachers.
It was my Father's house and mine.
