At Trinity

"How lovely is your dwelling place, O LORD of hosts! My soul longs, indeed it faints for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God. Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself." — Psalm 84:1-3

I was at Trinity this morning and the sanctuary was cooler than the parking lot, which is always the case in July, and I was grateful for the stone walls and the high ceiling and the fans turning slowly above the pews.

Edna was in her pew. The Millers were two rows behind me. Pastor Holloway preached and I listened and the sermon went in the way sermons go in on a hot Sunday, which is slowly, like water soaking into hard ground. I do not always take the sermon home with me but I take the hour home with me and the hour is the thing.

We sang a hymn I do not remember choosing and the words came up from the same place they always come from, which is not my head but somewhere lower, somewhere that learned the words by repetition and holds them without being asked. I opened my mouth and the hymn was there and I did not have to think about it, which is its own kind of prayer.

After the service I stood in the vestibule and talked to three people about nothing important and that was important. The handshake. The how-are-you. The comment about the heat. These are not small talk. These are the ordinary mechanics of people showing up for each other on a Sunday morning and I do not take them for granted.

I drove home and the road was bright and the fields on either side were green and heavy and the cattle were standing in the shade of the one tree and I thought about how showing up is most of it. Showing up to the table in the morning. Showing up to the garden. Showing up to the church. The rest takes care of itself if you keep showing up.

Ruby keeps a collection of prayers at her kitchen table. You can find them here.