Losing Your Spot
Everyone who goes to church regularly has their “spot”. I don’t think there’s anything spiritual about that, as the same sociological phenomenon takes place at our dinner tables, classrooms, etc. There’s something secure though, I think, in having a specific place you claim. And my family’s spot felt special! Our sanctuary is set up with 3 sections of pews. We sat in the middle section, 3rd row from the front. In front of us sat our pastor’s wife and kids. To our left, Jon and Maria. To our right was the middle aisle, but behind us sat Pat and Gaylen.
Elizabeth was our pastor’s wife. In her mid-30s with 3 young children, she was fully initiated as a mother, and was dedicated to serving the church and its community alongside her husband. She was one of those people that, despite their quiet and gentle nature, was truly a force. You knew when you were in her presence, even though she never asserted herself in such a way. She was an incredible listener and always put herself secondary to everyone else. These were all wonderful qualities about her, but the biggest way in which she impacted me was through her faith, especially as it was expressed in her worship. Sitting directly behind her, I was able to see some of the more subtle motions in her body language and facial expressions, the way she offered her spirit to the Lord.
Maria was in her 50’s and served as a city clerk. Her and her husband Jon were fairly new to the church when I first was hired, and had started attending as their son got involved in our youth program. Their story is a beautiful one, two people both realizing their need for Christ later in life, and then devoting themselves to him without reservation. She was an absolute delight, a real firecracker who was also somehow one of the gentlest people you’d ever meet. She was an open book, and wanted her struggles to encourage others to be brave and vulnerable. Talking with her made you feel good, like you were at home.
Gaylen was an elderly man, and couldn’t have been any more different from his wife, Pat. Both were such joys in our church. He was very quiet, and sort of your typical “midwestern strong man”: didn’t say much, worked hard, and was dedicated to his family and church. Every week, my wife and I would turn around from our pew and he would greet us with the warmest smile and handshake. He would give attention to our children, wiggling his finger in front of their nose or shaking their little hands, sharing our delight in them.
Those days were indeed special. Each Sunday felt enhanced having them around us, and there were times where I noticed the moment we were in and was able to appreciate it, knowing that it wouldn’t last forever.
By the time Covid hit in March of 2020, Elizabeth had been given only a few months left to live after her battle with colon cancer. Maria was also battling cancer, but there was optimism, as her treatments were proving effective. Gaylen was still in moderately good health, but was growing more and more tired and showing signs of decline. I knew change was coming, but like everyone else, Covid totally upended everything for me. For our church though, Covid was simply the rumblings of an incoming storm. We shut down for about 3–4 months before opening back up with restrictions, and in those few short months, everything was different.
In October 2020, Elizabeth had passed away. Her decline was very swift, and while logically we all knew it would likely end like that, her energy just months before had seemed almost supernatural. Just a couple of months prior to her death, she was able to plan and host a small birthday party for her husband. She was still taking care of the children while Eric worked, even homeschooling while schools were closed. Our eyes betrayed what we internally knew, and at least for me, I wanted to believe the lie that her passing was going to endlessly be extended, and so I did. The day Eric told me that Elizabeth was fully bed-ridden was a strange one, a mixture of internal responses like, “of course; this day was coming” and “but how could this be?” Because of Covid, we couldn’t see her decline as closely, the days growing shorter and shorter for her, the need for rest greater and greater.
In March 2021, our dear Gaylen passed away. The frequent trips to the hospital told us that he was in decline, but it also in some ways felt routine. It was easy to think that it wasn’t necessarily him dying, just that he was needing more attention. At that time at church, we were gathering again but many were still staying home. Gaylen not being there felt odd, but I associated his absence more with Covid than his growing frailty. There was a foolish hope that soon things would “get back to normal”.
In May of that year, things were opening back up quite a bit. Jon and Maria stayed after service a bit to chat one Sunday, and we were having such a great time we decided to go grab lunch together. We talked about her work quite a bit, as there were some exciting things going on. We talked about her health and how she was starting to feel worn down, about how she wanted to be sure to enjoy whatever days she had left. We laughed, shed a tear, and bickered over who was going to pick up the tab. We won (as we usually do), but Maria vowed (in that animated way she had) that next time they would be paying. It was only about a month later that I went to visit her on her deathbed. Her sons were there, tenderly caring for her. With all her medications for pain, her consciousness of the situation was very limited. I’m not sure she fully understood that it was Diana and I there with her. We talked for a bit, and she mostly laid still, going in and out of sleep. Before we left, I prayed over her. It was a hard prayer, knowing it was my last chance to really minister to her directly. To my surprise, as I ended the prayer, Maria said “amen” as I said it. Suddenly, I experienced this sense of peace, reminded that I was not the only one ministering to her.
One of the beautiful aspects of Christianity is its ability to connect you with the global and ancient saints. When we recite the Apostle’s Creed as a church, we are reciting something that is being said in Brazil, Mozambique, China, Russia, and others. But we are also reciting something that was spoken by Christians living almost 2,000 years ago. There exists a sort of invisible fellowship with these people, and within that a mutual longing for the day when all Christians, past and present, far and wide will join together to worship our savior.
I felt the cold slap of reality though in this as we worshipped this past Sunday. The past is supposed to feel ancient, isn’t it? That connection I yearn for is supposed to be with people I never met, belonging to a time or place I have not or cannot visit. Instead, I stand in what feels at times like a graveyard, little empty spots in the pews where our dear friends once stood. Their voices no longer join mine in expressing through song that blessed hope we have. The connection we have in worship seems no different than the one I have with Barnabas, St. Augustine, or John Calvin.
And yet, it is different. Their examples not only live on, but are almost rebroadcast to me. Our worship team starts playing a familiar song and I can hear Gaylen’s raspy voice behind me, I can almost see Maria, with her hands raised and occasionally wiping away a tear. Elizabeth, with her eyes closed, hands raised with open palms, body swaying… all of us singing that song again,
“So Lord lift our eyes, and fix on them Zion, the city descending and hope we rely on,
Where rivers of wine and oceans of gladness will drown all the dying, the sickness, and sadness.
So now make us citizens, born of that nation, who work as we wait for the earth’s consummation, living for resurrection and the Reckoning,
Longing and laboring till
You make everything new, everything new.
All that is dying and dry will be watered with life, and everything sad come untrue
You make everything new, everything new
And the trumpet will sound, and your glory rain down, shower the earth like the dew
You make everything new”
I deeply long for those days again. However, I am ministered to through their example while still with us. Our friends knew their time was coming soon, and songs like the one mentioned took on a special meaning. You could see it in their faces, that beautiful fusion of heart and soul expressing its hope to their Creator. Now, our worship takes on an added depth for me: a satisfaction in knowing that the thing they longed most for in life has now been attained, their brokenness undone, their reunification with their Creator complete. It is something I long for, my voice now doing its best to articulate the hope within me. There are over a hundred others physically present with me, all crying out to God with that same hope.
The void spaces around “my spot” are heavy, but I am not alone. We are not alone.
