Sundays and vacation make for an interesting combination – does time away from one’s usual church mean time away from any church, or do certain Sabbath expectations stand, regardless of one’s schedule and locale?
We are starting our third week in Idaho, visiting family, and each passing Sunday has offered its own distinctive interpretation of the day. The first First Day followed an ambitious drive the day before, and our church-going was thus encumbered by the kind of lingering exhaustion that can only be derived from long, long hours of sitting.
So, it took little encouragement to persuade us to sleep in, eat a late and leisurely breakfast, and lean back in the patio shade … feeling the sweet cool breeze, watching it sway the tall trees, following the acrobatics of the resident squirrel, listening to the birds warbling high above.
It’s a pleasant, restful way to pass a morning. No scrambling to get dressed and out the door, no yawning between choruses, no navigating traffic and the church parking lot. Hymns soar in our soul, sermons touch on tender places, but, as it turns out, God – given a moment’s pause and a little undivided attention – speaks pretty well for Himself.
Who knew a day of rest could be so … restful?
It’s a tempting habit to get into, and therein, of course, lies the danger. There’s no warning in Scripture about “forsaking the assembly of singing birds.” Or pretty clouds. We draw our enduring inspiration from Creation … but something deep inside us is built for sharing the Creator with the complicated souls, all around, who are made in so many facets of His image.
Our second Sunday took us far out into the country, to the biggest church in Deer Flat (out beyond Caldwell and Nampa). Big church, busy church, and a foyer bubbling with happy, cheerful families and couples and old folks and children, mingling and laughing and sipping their coffee between services.
My wife reappeared after a short absence, holding up a nice, semi-leather-bound journal with pen affixed. “Look what I got!” she said. “At the Welcome Center. They give ‘em to first-time visitors.”
I was a first-time visitor, myself. As we writer types are not wont to pass up a nifty journal or a free pen, I strode boldly over to the Welcome Center desk to introduce myself.
“Hi,” I smiled at the lady behind the counter. “I’m new here. From out of town. First time here. Nice church you’ve got. Just wanted to say hi.”
She looked at me for long seconds, blank-faced. What do you want?” her eyes yawned. A medal?
“Here,” she said, finally, handing me a bulletin to match the one I was already holding. She looked over as a fellow welcomer came up beside her. I’d swear their eyes rolled in unison.
I walked back toward my giggling wife. Before I could reach her, an older woman stepped up, hand outstretched. “Are you new here?” she asked, beaming. I confessed that I was.
“Were you in the last service?” she asked, and when I said no, her eyes rolled, too … but with an accompanying expression that suggested I had missed out on the biggest thing since the original moon landing. “Our choir did a special,” she said. “In the African style.”
“Yes, I heard something about that …”
“Oh, it was great!” she said. “Goes like this –” Her lips parted and, lo, the song came forth. In the African style. And not quietly (quiet is not the African style). Thought at first I was being treated to a particularly catchy chorus, but it soon became apparent I was going to get the whole anthem. There was naught to do, politely, but stand there and be serenaded. People around us, I noticed, were quietly fading toward the foyer’s frontiers.
Suddenly, a middle-aged man appeared, calling her by name. He asked her a question, with such casual urgency that I wondered if he’d been delegated to rescue people from these solos. They moved away, and a friend waved me over to introduce me to a white-haired gentlemen, looking trim and distinguished and ramrod straight. A retired army chaplain, he said.
“Vietnam?” I guessed. He nodded. “Korea, before that,” he said.
“You’ve seen a lot,” I said, opening the door for a story or two, if he cared to tell them. Time in service is a subject many a veteran can warm to, in a hurry.
But not this veteran. Not this day. “Yes,” he said, quietly. I watched his eyes drift far away. Then, suddenly shy, he excused himself and moved toward the open doors of the auditorium.
My third Sunday, at another fair-sized church. I find myself making conversation in another foyer, with another older man, this one hunched heavily over a well-used cane. He looks tired, but he’s friendly, and we fall easily to talking. “What do you – did you – do?” I asked.
He said he worked 35 years for the Union Pacific railroad. “You must get a lot of free train rides,” I suggested.
“Never been on a train,” he said. “Thirty-five years, and never even saw a train.”
“Wow,” I said.
He shrugged. “In the navy before that,” he said. “Eight years. Never saw a ship.”
Lots of people like that, I reflected. Live their whole life without living their whole life.
A moment later, yet another older gent strode over, light of step and bright of eye. He held out his hand with a broad and genuine smile. In his 80s, I’d guess. A friend of my father-in-law, who explained that the man’s wife of 60-plus years had passed away just a few weeks before.
I was looking at the man’s face as he said that, and saw the quick wince, way deep in his smiling eyes. But the smile barely faltered, and the shoulders stayed straight. A moment or two later, he walked away, his step almost as light as before.
Three Sundays, three locations. The gentle glories of creation, and a curious mix of souls made in the image of that Creator. Some with a song in their heart, some with an endless ache. Some – maybe most – with both.
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