My Old Church

I’d come prepared. I dug into my pocket, pulled out a tissue, and discreetly blotted my tears.  I’d expected tears to appear—just not the moment I sat in the pew.  My tears were joyful, saturated with nostalgia and overwhelming gratefulness.

I was sitting in a pew in the small church in rural Raleigh, North Carolina, where I’d first learned about Jesus nearly 60 years earlier.  I have warm, fuzzy memories of attending Sunday service at the pristine white church on the hill with my mother in the late 1960s.  I vividly remember sitting on the dark wooden pews looking at the photos in my brand-new Bible.  I remember how the morning sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, making the depicted scenes colorfully come to life, and how the shiny, brass chandeliers always cast a soft, pleasing light.  I remember watching the hands of a large pendulum clock move ever so slowly.  I remember the hymn board that hung on pale yellow walls near the pulpit.  I remember watching my mom as she was listening to the sermon and sneaking a peek when the pastor prayed.  Most of all, I remember how I felt: safe and loved. In fact, Mount Moriah became the baseline for what I desired in a church: a time-tested, gospel-preaching, old church.

As a military family, we moved every few years.  Throughout my junior high and high school years, I only attended Sunday school on the military bases where we lived.  After my graduation, when we moved back to the East Coast, my mother and I began attending church services again.  I excitedly plugged into my new—albeit contemporary-designed church—and was finally baptized on Mother’s Day 1981. I attended that church for several years—until I got married, moved to another state, and became an unintentional prodigal. I hadn’t meant to stray from my faith—but I did, until that fateful night in late 1993 when my husband left me.  Devastated, I found my way to a nearby church where I soon found hope—and community.

I’d been attending the church for almost a year when a friend asked me when I was going to join. I gave her my spiel about wanting to belong to an “old” church.  The next Sunday morning, when the Pastor gave the invitation, I felt prompted by the Holy Spirit that I needed to commit to church membership, but I didn’t move, and even reminded Him that I wanted to be a member of an old church—like Mount Moriah!  Then the Pastor said, “There’s not a better day to join than today—on Olive’s 100th birthday!” My heart pounded, and the Lord whispered to my heart, “So, is 100 years old enough for you?” I joined the church that morning.

Over the years, I’ve thought about how amazing it would be to go back and visit Mount Moriah.  On a recent road trip, plans fell into place for me to visit with my childhood friend who still lived in the area, and we made plans to attend the Sunday morning service.  She forewarned me that the sanctuary wasn’t the same—it’d been redesigned and rebuilt after it suffered severe damage from Hurricane Fran in 1996.  However, she said the stained-glass windows had been salvaged.

In the days leading up to my visit, every time I thought about attending worship at my “old” church, my eyes filled with tears. I wasn’t sure why--perhaps it was not only excitement about visiting a place that was foundational in my faith—or perhaps it was because I wouldn’t be able to share about my experience with my mother.  Riding shotgun on the way to the church, my friend pointed out different childhood places that were vaguely familiar.  My excitement stirred as I drove up the road to the church on the hill.  Much to my dismay, the skies were overcast.

I whispered a prayer, “Lord, would you please let the sunshine through the stained glass, just like it used to?”

When I stepped into the vestibule, nothing was familiar…until I saw the large stained-glass window.  A warm, fuzzy feeling stirred in my gut.  As we found our way into the sanctuary, I tried to remember what it used to look like, but I couldn’t picture the original layout.  We found a seat on a pew—and that’s when the tears slipped out—and I was transported back in time…

The pews, while not original, were still dark wood with red cushions. The shiny brass chandeliers cast soft, pleasing light.  The original pendulum clock still hung on pale yellow walls.  I clenched my eyes as we stood to sing, remembering all the times I’d stood beside my mother.  As the Pastor opened the service with prayer, I peeked—and that was when the sunlight burst through the trio of stained-glass windows. Overwhelmed, my tears fell at a rapid rate and soaked my Kleenex, and I quietly fished in my pocket for another.  As the pastor began to preach, I opened my current Bible—one without photos, but heavily marked with decades of notes in the margin— and I thought about the young me sitting in the pew—drawing on a tithe envelope as I listened to the sermon.   

On the day we attended, it was communion Sunday.  As the deacons passed the communion plates, a young girl sitting beside her mother caught my attention.  She was about the age I was when I’d sit on the pew beside my mother.  When her mother bypassed her with the communion plate, a core memory was unlocked, one I’d never thought about until that moment.  While I’d accepted Christ as my Savior, my mother had never let me take part in the Lord’s Supper.  She’d said I was too young to fully understand the significance of Jesus’ sacrifice—and she’d been right.  As I took a wafer from the communion plate, a fresh batch of tears flooded my eyes.

It was a full circle moment.

It was here, in this beautiful old church, where my faith was born.  Now, almost six decades later, I was sitting in the same church participating in the ordinance of the Lord’s Supper.  Indeed, God’s goodness and mercy have followed me throughout all of my years and across the miles. 

And I knew the reason for my tears—it is the Lord’s Presence—both within the walls of a small, rural church on a hill and in a large worship center on a busy street corner in the city—where I feel safe and loved.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life;

And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

-Psalm 23:6