Two English teachers and a drummer walked into a square-shaped white church.
One of the teachers was even wearing a cardigan.
There’s no punchline here.
Only three guys carrying instruments intent on a sound-syncing session.
The trio set up in the altar shadow tucked in tight next to the communion rail.
Sound in the dusty space rises and rolls back smooth. The text popped up at 5:54 p.m.
“GC rehearsal tonight @ 7:15. Just so you know.”
After two appointments, a quick dinner and a damp stroll through dark streets, I found my way to a vintage box pew on the right.
Ordinarily streaming hot with light, by night the sacred space softened me.
But regret singed me, too.
My regret at being in my worship space without the weight of worship. Pondering lately my specific purpose, I offered up a plea for peace.
A little music marinade helped. As did soaking in the residue of so many deposited prayers. It always does.
I should show up for church more often.
What is church?
It’s this community of believers who promised to love a baby girl.
It’s a group of friends on a porch listening to a song about Jesus and whiskey.
It’s a saved-up heart spilling out to serve.
It’s this moment in this place. In a dimly lit space with these three.
Dingy Chuck Taylors tapping time on a battered floor.
Blurry drumsticks reaching for the beat.
Tattooed smiley-man in a bundled guitar embrace.
Church will meet you where you are.