The tiny Episcopalian church was nestled at the end of Wallace Circle where we lived. She was Catholic and I was Baptist though I‘m quite sure neither of us could have articulated the theology of the camp that claimed us. Slipping through the unlocked sanctuary doors, we would sashay across shellacked wooden pew seats and reach for musty hymn books. The sweet sound of little girl’s voices escaped to the towering ceilings, a soprano melded with a harmonizing alto. Strains of Fairest Lord Jesus and Be Thou My Vision poured from our lips long before we knew the One of whom we sang.
Often we would see or hear the priest enter the area but he never discouraged our stealth worship. It was as if he had clearly heard Jesus say, “Let the little children come unto Me”. And come we did.
It would be years before those hours bore fruit in my life. But Mercy’s arms are long for the reaching. And recently I've been thinking a lot about moments like the “hymn sings”. God so artfully weaves those golden strands through the dirt and grind of our lives. And like the strength of a spider’s silken web, they are capable of supporting the weight of a life wearied soul if we but only pause to see them.
I have several that I can pull out of my own archives:
Mr LaPole, the faithful (but boring) Sunday School teacher who tried to teach the Bible to a table of Junior High kids as he mopped sweat from his brow. But he was there and I remember his commitment.
The church camp high that I experienced, hinting that there was "something more".
My serendipitous interview, as a journalism major, with Miss Teen America that led to a Campus Crusade for Christ encounter.
The faithful friends that walked with me, spoke truth into my life and held me accountable when my feet slipped off the narrow path.
All of these are holy moments- part of the Master Architect's grand design and just waiting to be rediscovered. What are yours?