The Old Man's House

I spent the morning in the old man’s house. Awakened by creaks in the weathered floorboards, I lay in bed taking in the room surrounding me. His books, almost exclusively theological, were neatly assembled in the bookcase, with two others resting on the table beside his chair, as if put down for a moment. Paintings of sailboats, his other passion, adorned the walls, complemented by colonial antiques. The smell of New England authenticity filled my soul, and I found it hard to believe he’d been gone for over a year.

With my cup of coffee, and the stereo tuned to his favorite classical music station, the liturgical procession began. From room to room, I wandered and paused, recalling moments both happy and sad, and it was as if he were present, along with the others for whom this place is home.

Later that morning, as I sat in a 130 year-old summer parish, I heard the floorboards announce the arrival of other worshipers. Pews creaked as we took our places beside one another, and could feel the presence of those from generations past. On the walls and in the windows were pictures depicting the stories, some happy others not, of our common faith. The altar was prepared, and the Bible and other books lay just where they were left at the end of last summer. Old wood filled the space with a smell far more inspirational than any incense, and, as I breathed deeply, I gave thanks for the sense of home.

Singing familiar hymns, and reading Biblical passages, it occurred to me I was in church for the second time that morning.