In the Pew - His Boy

I'd like to ask if you ever really look at those worshipping around you on Sunday morning.

Do you wonder what their lives are really like? 

What are their concerns or cares?

What are their joys and triumphs?

Who's in the pew next to you?

***********************

He straightened his jacket and fiddled with the tip of his tie. Midway through the very first hymn, he'd had to take his seat. The deafening refrain of his panicked heart galloped onward, as it had for the last twenty-four hours, dimishing the melody of worship.

Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!

He refocused his attention on the song book in his lap. They occupied their customary pew, only six rows from the pulpit. His wife remained determinedly on her feet, one had gripping the pew for balance, her arm protectively encircling their grandson between them. The only son of their only son was just nine years old. 

The music faded to a persistent, jangling background accompaniment for his barely concealed hysteria. He eyed the expanse of low wooden railing just beyond the feet of the musicians. If only he could walk up to that altar right now! Yes, this very minute ... what exactly would he do? Which scarcely  contained emotion would be the first to erupt onto the smooth oak and create an ugly, profane stain on the blood-red carpet below? Anger might be the first. How he'd love to beat the altar rail and demand an explanation of God! What about his boy? Why had this been allowed to happen? Had he not sacrificed enough? Prayed enough? Given enough? Did God look away while his son had been in his greatest  moment of  need? Or perhaps grief would shove its painful way out first. While the delivery would be different, with gut-clearing sobs replacing hot shouts of anger, the questions would remain the same. But the desperation he felt right now, in which questions were abandoned in favor of pleas, bargains, and begging, was dangerously close to spilling over.

He was startled from his anguished imaginations by the small hand of his grandson. The sweaty palm placed so lightly on his shoulder sent heat searing through layers of fabric to pierce his wretched heart. What would become of  this young boy just leaving childhood and entering his youth? What now? What would they do? 

The music finally ended, and the faithful bowed to pray. His only option in joining, the only offering he was capable of bringing was unchanged. 

Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!

In the Pew - Alone

I'd like to ask if you ever really look at those worshipping around you on Sunday morning.

Do you wonder what their lives are really like? 

What are their concerns or cares?

What are their joys and triumphs?

Who's in the pew next to you?

***********************

He slipped into his seat during that bustling moment before the music began, just as he always did now, according to his every-Sunday plan. Finding isolation in the midst of the churchgoing crowd felt safe and tight, and he judged his strategy to be serving him well. It didn't matter what pew he occupied, as long as it wasn't 'their' pew, which he steadfastly refused to even look toward.

When his Marnie had been by his side, the Sunday morning experience had been completely different. It had been a joy to arrive at church early. Every encounter with friends had been an opportunity for laughter and shared confidences, hardy handshakes and stiff slaps on the back. In those days, it had been his barely secret delight to study Marnie over the shoulders of others. How he had cherished the curve of her cheek, and the shape of her neck as it held up the head he loved to cradle in their bed at night. Her form in its loudly patterned Sabbath dresses had been his touchstone; her smile, his homing beacon. As she moved among their friends and reached to greet strangers, he had been her faithful Always Admirer, gratefully savoring the wife of his youth.

Now alone and moving stiffly, he seemed to have aged many years in the few weeks since she had gone on, losing whatever youth he had left to the continually fierce pain which loss had brought along as its partner. There was a hole in his side, a gaping rip like the war wound of his past. His breath was perpetually shallow and sour-tasting with grief, and the trembling hands at the ends of his arms did not seem to be his own as he placed his Bible in the empty space next to him. 

He was unaware of the morning light as it poured through the stained glass, bathing his solitude with shafts of green, pink and blue. The piano pounded to life and obediently he stood to sing, helplessly shouldering the weight of his bereavement.