Peace

I am not a regular church goer and haven’t been for years. But I still consider Trinity United Methodist Church to be my home church.

At the Lexington Christmas parade this year, I ran into some of my late mother’s friends from the church. I told them that since we would not be hosting family this year on the 24th, I’d probably attend the Ch r i s t mas Eve service at Trinity. Their response was so ebullient I knew I had pretty much made a commitment to attend.

A week later I received a Christmas card from the church. The inside message read, “We miss seeing you and look forward to having you with us at the Christmas Eve service.” Well, there was no backing out now. I had plans for the night before Christmas.

But even if I had not received the card, I had made the decision to attend the service evening before seeing my mother’s friends that rainy Friday parade night. This year has been a lot. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to be crushed by the weight of everything that’s going on in the world. Turning on the evening news sometimes makes me want to call it an early night and crawl into bed. News of neighborhoods torn apart by warfare, destroyed by floods or devastated by shootings seem to be recurring top stories.

I needed to spend time in a sacred place and experience the ritual of worship. I needed to hear those old Christmas hymns and feel the heavy hymnal in my hands. I needed the embrace of my church.

Having been away from regular worship as long as I have, I expected the church to be preserved as it is in my memory. And it appeared pretty much like I remembered it at Christmas time with a tall tree decorated with the traditional Chrismons and strings of white lights. The wood floors retain their familiar squeaks when trod upon by congregationalists, as do the pews when people find their seats.

I wondered where all the children were. The children had become adults while I was away. One of them is even a lay leader now.

I took my place in a pew approximately where my family used to sit, when we used to all take up almost an entire pew. My grandparents, my uncle Skip, all four of my first cousins and I would all be crammed in together. My mother and her sister Wanda sat in the choir loft. I remembered how my cousin Bo would always try to make us all laugh and my grandmother’s stern look that made it clear we were to remain quiet or else.

On this past Christmas Eve, I was all alone in the pew until a late comer took her seat beside me.

Trinity has its first female minister, Anita Mays Lucord, who has brought such youthful vitality to the church. I enjoyed hearing her talk about her experience growing up in a small church in which she was pressed into service as an angel at each Christmas pageant, wearing a white robe made from sheets and a halo fashioned from a coat hanger and tinsel. I could totally relate.

I loved that the service began with the singing of two of my favorite Christmas songs – “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.” I was disheartened that I could not sing them in any semblance of the soprano voice I had in my youth.

At the conclusion of the service, the minister lit a candle from the Peace candle in the Advent wreath and it was from that candle that each of the candles held by the congregationalists was ignited. The evening’s service ended with the singing of “Silent Night.” There was piano accompaniment for the first three verses, but the last verse was sung acapella. With each verse the overhead lighting was progressively dimmed until we all stood in the sanctuary in candlelight for the fourth verse.

It was in the third verse that my tears began to fall, almost in time with the rivulets of melting wax descending from the wick of my candle. It could have been a number of things that caused such a sudden emotional response. “Silent Night” is a beautiful song and it was always my grandfather’s favorite. He’s been gone for 40 years and I still miss him. Sitting in the pew I tried to minimize my fidgeting, because surely my grandmother was watching me with judgy eyes from Heaven, where she’s been since 1998. Skip left us a decade ago; his wife Wanda followed in 2019. Mom has been gone since 2010. I keep waiting for the day when I won’t miss her so much. The pain of her passing is resurrected at Christmas, a season that she adored and made so special for everyone at Trinity with her rendition of “O Holy Night.”

Being at Trinity church on Christmas Eve, I found the solace I had been seeking for so long. I found it in the hugs from folks I hadn’t seen in a while. I found it in the sacred songs, the scripture and the candlelight.

I hope I see those who have departed again one day. In Heaven my grandmother is probably praising the angels while she’s secretly criticizing their hippie hairdos.