And I was miserable. Physically, my back was acting up, it being evening and a hard floor and all. Emotionally, I was mourning the space and our failure to keep it. I paced and cried, in my usual spot behind the last pew on the right, absorbing the view of the tree at the pinnacle of the front wall for the last time, the whole space lit mainly by candles, reminiscent of my favorite services on Christmas Eve. I finally took my damp, achy self outside, where the striking silhouette of our triangular-shaped sanctuary was lit from inside and glowed against the dark sky. The kids were mainly enjoying the candles, though they too knew the significance of the event.
Of course, I recognize the necessity and even look forward with relief to being released from the burden of financial pressures. Still, we've been attending church there for almost eight years and have many memories there. But while we're leaving behind the crumbling infrastructure and monetary strain, we are taking the memories of friends and moments with us.
On a lighter note, I prayed twice in the sanctuary, calling on our Christian heritage as I haven't done there before: first, when a kid in the balcony dropped a candle from above (it went out in the fall) on Mama's head accidentally and I cried out, "Oh, God!" Second, when the lit candle in my holder fell out but didn't extinguish as it flared on the wooden pew--"Oh, Jesus," I cried out as I attempted to blow it out without being able to bend over and reach it.
A memorable evening for many reasons . . . .
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