When God’s House Becomes Your Home
My favorite part of having a church home isn’t the hustle and bustle of weekend services. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing the familiar faces, the pulsing worship, the familiar warmth of that place, these people…
But there’s something about being there when it’s quiet that moves me.
The loud echo of the front doors snapping shut, metal doors locking in place as the sun gleams through the glass. It’s always warmer on the weekdays when the church is empty. Before I knew the names of the housekeeping staff, I had one key that let me into the Nursing Mothers Room, a glorified closet that I used weekly to get close to the Lord.
The lights were dim as I would settle into the rocking chair. I couldn’t tell you how many times I sat there; how many prayers were uttered in the quiet, empty hours of the week, how many times I walked the halls when the lights were half-off.
We know the church isn’t about the four walls of a building, but the familiarity of encountering God in a sweet place is something I relished in. There were times when walking through the doors of the church felt cozier and more inviting than my own home, the place I ran to in moments of distress, the place I most wanted to be when I had news to share.
