The wind howled angrily outside the century-old country church. The thick rain pounded the parking lot.
But I was safe inside as I closed the door behind me.
I walked through the dark church to the front, familiar steps from years gone by. I paused at the step before the altar and gently sank to the floor. I slipped off my shoes, for this was a holy place.
And I sat at the feet of my Jesus.
Darkness. Except for the light of the small red sanctuary lamp. The flicker that says He’s here. He’s waiting. Just for me.
I had unspoken thoughts and emotions on my heart, but no words. So I hoped that my soul would speak to Him when my mind could not.
It wasn’t the first time I had sat in this spot, that I had brought Him my uncertainty and fear, my hope, my awe and wonder. The past memories whispered in hushed tones, reminding me of the prayers I’d prayed in this very spot over the years, some with answers manifested and some with answers still unknown to me but known in heaven.
How many before me have knelt here in this hundred-year-old place of worship?
How many have sat here at Jesus’ feet in those hundred years, offering hearts and receiving graces?
Beautiful faith. Handed down from generation to generation. Seasons change. Years pass. But He is always there. The red glow beckons us to His feet. He is there, waiting with love and mercy and grace and healing. The Ancient One from Abraham’s time; the same God yesterday, today, and forever.