Although summer is slowly turning to autumn, the season of Easter has been on my mind. A few years ago, I was in California for Holy Week and my dear friend Susan invited me to a Palm Sunday service at her church in Pasadena. I went to St. James’ in the evening—a sparsely attended service lit mainly by the glow of candles.
I took my seat next to Susan in an old, wooden pew and looked up at the light fixture above me. The light fixture above me was identical to the ones at St. Bartholomew’s, where I went to church back home. The familiarity caused me to grin as I sang.
Standing up during the rest of the songs, I allowed my hands to grasp the back of the pew in front of me, feeling each and every crack in the smooth wood. I wondered how many people had clinched the pew because of how lonely they were, just waiting to hear something—anything—from God…
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