On our vacation last year, we came upon a very old church up in the mountains. It was so beautiful. Worn white paint, ancient pews that had heard thousands of messages. Walls that have withstood the test of time.
The simple design carried through the building, the pews and the pulpit. 3 windows behind the pulpit let in soft light, giving such a peaceful feel. I just had to see what the view was like from up there. In the soft light and quiet sanctuary, I approached reverently, thinking of all the worship that happened in this place so long ago.
Then I reached the other side of the pulpit. And I saw the handwritten prayers left by visitors before me. Thanking God for His blessings, praying for struggles, memories of loved ones who died. Then I saw the note written by a grieving mom, asking God to help them survive the loss of their daughter. And the note below it, of another visitor who prayed for them.
I expected to find a quiet mountain church. A historical building. I didn’t expect to find such beauty as being able to witness people’s prayers and reaching out to God.