echoes

I walked into this empty space today. The gathering space of my childhood church.

It’s funny how something so quiet can be so loud.

I could hear our choir director taking requests for carols at the advent dinner. I could hear the giggles behind the curtains as we played hide-and-seek in their folds. Clanking dishes being washed by hand as they had been for generations before.

I could hear the echos of my movement through this space with baby socks, bare feet in an angel costume, as a teen in tennis shoes, and in high-heeled shoes under a wedding dress.

The voices of ministers who shaped my belief system still linger here. The echoes of The Doxology, promises made at confirmation and prayers for mission trips. The variance in language from those who had just arrived in this country to those who used their mastery of language as a weapon.

My family, in all of its iterations, has prayed, cried, sang and laughed here. Echoes of joyful Christmas cheer, whispers about church politics and heartbreaks, voices raised in anger, congratulations shared for weddings and condolences given at funerals.

The sound of my grandmother offering me cookies and her warm perfumed hug is here. The gleeful chatter with my Sunday besties bounces off the walls. The vibrant hum of the church community making small talk or sharing their most vulnerable selves.

Echoes of the many versions of me are here. I’ve been a boisterous, happy child and a sullen teenager. I’ve felt free to speak mind and like my voice didn’t belong. I discovered the joy of singing and lost it within the same walls.

I leave grateful that, in the silence, I could hear it all again.