My View from the Pew

I was in no way prepared for the flood of emotion that was to come over me. I had already played the pre-service music for the funeral and taken my place at the end of the second pew when it happened. The preacher had welcomed everyone and now Mercy Me was singing “I Can Only Imagine” through the speakers. That song can move anyone who has lost a loved one, but this time it wasn’t the music that undid me. It was my view from the pew. 

It had been over 20 years since I had sat in this place on the second row and even though the sanctuary was filled, I suddenly felt alone with my memories. Listening to the words being sung, my eyes fell upon the cross hanging above the choir loft and I quietly remembered, “My daddy made that cross. And he and Mr. Chesley hung it.” Which led me to look at the Paschal candle and the beautiful stand which held it. My daddy built and carved that stand and gave it to the Perry United Methodist Church in honor of the Reverend Bill Strickland for his service to God. And there’s the bell tree Daddy made at the request of the music minister Marc Foster and on which hangs a hundred small bells to be used on special Sundays. Oh, the goosebumps I would get when I would hear its tinkling in the narthex knowing that the processional was about to begin.

By now, my head and heart were beginning to reel with the memories.

Yes, this was the very pew I sat on as a child. This is where I learned the great hymns of the church and where I heard the call from the Reverend Billy Key standing with arms outstretched, “If anyone will come, come.” And I did. This pew is where I learned the Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, the Doxology, the Gloria Patri. Where I heard the Word read and preached.

And whereas the piano is a different one from the grand when I was small, this is where I had my piano recitals when I took from Mrs. Jean Gossett, the church organist. Where I was first given the opportunity to play in church worship services and to accompany the choir led by Mr. Francis Nunn. In later years and on the beautiful Yahama that sits there now, it’s where I would take a stint as the church pianist, leading in worship and also accompanying youth and adult choirs alike.

As my eyes wandered to the casket, I knew that many other coffins had been placed there. Ones that had held my grandmother and grandfather, my great aunts and great uncles. And so many more whom I had known and loved through the years. That place in front of the altar was also where my parents stood to say their wedding vows, where I was baptized as an infant, where I professed my own faith as a six year old, and where my husband and I each said our own “I do.” 

The pulpit brought to mind all the pastors that had stood there and at whose feet I had sat. Billy Key. J.B. Smith, Leonard Cochran, Elick Bullington, Tom Johnson, Bill Strickland. Men who in one way or another shaped me. That pulpit was also the place where I gave my first public testimony as a youth, using Psalm 96. And when the presiding pastor asked us to join him in reciting the 23rd Psalm, I could hardly get through it for the knot in my throat, for I knew this was the place where I had put those words to memory.

And the altar rail just feet before me that stretched the width of the sanctuary: how many times did I kneel and receive the elements of bread and juice? How many Christmas eves did we gather as an extended family, squeezing tightly together so we could all fit at one time and join in communion? How many times did I kneel in repentance or prayer?

As I played for the congregation to sing “Because He Lives,” I was bolstered in my spirit and was reminded of just how much these people love to sing. It was a singing church then and it remains a singing church now. A rare commodity in our culture today. 

Toward the end of the service when the pastor asked us to bow our heads in prayer, I quietly gathered my belongings and slipped out the back door as I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together to meet and greet those who had gathered. I drove home, walked through my kitchen door and burst into tears. Yes, they were tears of sweet memories, but they were also tears of thanksgiving. 

I am indeed grateful for parents who saw that going to church was of utmost importance and who made the effort to take me and my three brothers. Parents who even knew the value of sitting close to the front to keep distractions to a minimum. Parents who literally put hands to their faith and did what they could with the abilities God had given them. 

I am grateful for the people who built me up like Mr. Francis, the music director, and Jim McIlrath, my youth minister. For those pastors who were committed to preach and to lead and to speak life into me. Indeed, every single one of them did so in their own way. (Elick Bullington never failed to tell me how pretty I was. That meant so much to a young teen who didn’t think she was.) And for all those lay persons who sat each week in the same pew: their faithful presence was a solid and stable force in my life.

I am grateful I was taught to memorize Scripture and the Lord’s Prayer and creeds and doxologies. They are foundational to me even until this day.

I am grateful for the love instilled in me for the symbolic: crosses, Paschal and Advent candles, bells and baptismal fonts.

I am grateful for the scaffolding that Perry United Methodist Church gave me as a young child, so that when those beams began to fall away, I could stand and even walk in my own faith.

I am grateful for a God who has loved me, directed me, carried me. But more than anything, especially in this season of Advent and Christmas, I am grateful for this One Who came, Emmanuel, to give meaning to it all. 

Thanks be to God for His indescribable Gift.