There are very few things in this world that hit me at my core like stepping into old churches. The creak of the wood underfoot makes me think of the hundreds of feet that have walked before me, and without fail, I am humbled by the majesty of a God who has transcended space and time to be in that church with me too. Today I got to experience such a moment in Round Top, Texas on my journey home. While sitting in this historic church, I wrote this short poem:
The voices of the ancients have settled
into the whorls of this wood.
The echoes of faith live here,
abiding in the walls
and the soft fabrics on these sacred pews.
Hands have clasped in prayer here,
clutched the spines of hymn books to ward off
the storms of life.
The God of Abraham, of Jacob, of me,
and of you,
has curved His hand around the cornerstone
of this church,
curves it still.
As we touch the soles of our twenty-first century shoes
to this faltering floor,
we walk into His palm
just as those who walked here before.
The heart of a building is found
in the essence of the people it has housed,
and my heart is humbled to breathe
in the air filled with the dust
of one hundred years of love
poured out to a God who has caressed each prayer.
And I am filled with the knowing that
we are visitors here, guests of the divine,
stumbling into this air filled
with the sweet songs of days long gone by.
March 15, 2016