devotional

At Trinity

Ruby Hayes

— 2 min read
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Watercolor of a church pew with an open hymnal and a paper fan, stained glass light falling across the wood, with the pulpit and ceiling fan of a small sanctuary beyond.

"O LORD, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, O LORD, you know it completely." — Psalm 139:1-4

The parking lot at Trinity was half empty this morning and I was glad for it.

Not glad that people were gone. Glad for the quiet. There is something about a smaller congregation in August that lets the service breathe. The pews are not crowded. The hymns are not rushed. The air is warm and the fans are on and the whole thing moves at the pace it was meant to move at, which is slower than it moves in October when every seat is taken and the choir is full.

We sang "Blessed Assurance" this morning. I have sung that hymn so many times that I do not need the hymnal and I do not need to think about the words. The words are in me. They are in my hands and my mouth and the place in my chest where the singing starts. Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine. I have been singing it since I was a girl sitting between my parents in a pew not so different from the one I sit in now.

Pastor Holloway preached. The sermon was fine. But what I carry home from church is almost never the sermon. What I carry home is the moment in the pastoral prayer when the sanctuary is quiet and the only sound is the pastor's voice and the fan overhead and I feel, for just a few seconds, known. Not known the way a person knows you. Known the way only God knows you. Every part of you, even the parts you have not said aloud.

Edna was there. The Millers were there. Mrs. Patterson was there with her church fan working. The two visitors from last week were not back. The congregation was thin and honest and alive.

I stayed after the service for a few minutes and talked to Edna in the narthex. She asked about my garden and I asked about her hip and we said the things we say every Sunday and the saying of them was good. I drove home with the windows down because the morning was warm but not unbearable, and I thought about the hymn, and I thought about the prayer, and I thought about nothing at all, which is sometimes the best kind of thinking.

Lord, you know when I sit down and when I rise up. That is enough.