She sits in the vintage red chair near a stack of books in the local library where I often visit. In fact, I notice her presence nearly every time I arrive to work on my laptop. On previous days I walked past her without a thought, but today I can't help but notice something different about her, and more specifically, about why she frequents the library. By the Spirit's nudging I am able to see more deeply about the possibilities for her seemingly ubiquitous presence here in this quiet, holy place. And, I believe the Spirit wants us all to hear her story--a story told without words, a story that has tremendous import for the body of Christ.
Allow me to explain.
She spends hours perusing the newest edition of the local newspaper. Her salt and pepper hair informs me a bit about her age, and her wrinkled skin tells me her life experience is vast. Firmly grasping a page of the folded newspaper, she crosses her legs and leans her head against her left hand. Through the lenses of her glasses she reads earnestly and intently, treating her paper almost as if it's an extension of herself, maybe even subconsciously viewing her paper as one of her dearest, closest friends.
I see her and that newspaper when I arrive, and often, I see her digesting that newspaper when I depart, too.
Today, the Holy Spirit showed me something quite beautiful about her presence here in the library. Could it be, perhaps, that she is a widow? And could it be that her newspaper reading helps fill the hours of the void she feels from missing her late husband? Could it be that, among the comings and goings of library visitors checking out books and periodicals that all she yearns for, daily, is the quiet connection between herself and her newspaper?
Could it be that the library is her sanctuary--after all?
Granted, I've never spoken to her. I don't know where she's from. And I don't know where she's going. I'm merely guessing at her status. But one thing's for sure--she spends much of her week getting to her safe place, her holy place, her local library. She seeks out that vintage red chair and she folds and re-folds her newspaper, getting to know every detail of the day's events. It's almost as if she's sharing conversation with a precious, valued friend.
I think there are many people like this older woman sitting in the vintage red chair. I think there are widows and widowers among us who need to get to the library and secure their copy of today's newspaper, just to find some semblance of peace in their lives. I think there are lonely people who simply want to be held in the stillness of a library, a place where people come to read, to learn and to share ideas and to--well--rest.
Sometimes the sanctuary doesn't have pews. It doesn't have a pulpit. It doesn't have a choir loft. And it doesn't have a baptistry or an image of the cross in stained-glass. But this sweet lady's sanctuary is the library, and most definitely our Jesus is here with her. I see him kneeling at her feet, washing them spiritually as I hear her turn the worn, thin pages of her newspaper. I see Jesus look up at her, and I see him shed a tear as he gazes beyond her glasses and into her soul. She's faithful to get to her book-filled sanctuary and Jesus is faithful to meet her here when she arrives.
This is how I picture this older woman in her favorite vintage red chair. I see her as part of my experience, too. I see her as sharing the same sufferings and hopes and ideals as I, and I recognize her, not as a stranger but as my sister, my fellow sojourner in this difficult yet beautiful gift called Life.
Sometimes a library is a sanctuary. And sometimes its congregants never utter a word. And sometimes the Spirit speaks loudly and causes us to take notice of others, to worship the Lord who cares for people---people we might not ever speak to, whose stories we do not know, who truly are, when all is said and done, more like us than we ever thought was possible.
People are looking for a holy embrace, friends. That holy embrace may not happen within the confines of a brick, church building. But God is everywhere, and God longs to hug and affirm those who struggle, those who suffer, and those who simply need to know that they're not alone.
Sometimes the library is a sanctuary. And when we realize this, the restaurant, the bank, the store, the gym--they become holy places in which Christ's glory shines so brightly that its light can only be described as a Damascus Road experience.
That Paul-esque moment happened to me this morning, and I'm grateful. Now that I have new eyes to see, by God's grace, I hope you'll view others with new eyes, too--because wherever you go throughout your week, people are looking for sanctuary. People are looking for Jesus--whether they realize it or not.
Amen.
Pastor Will
><> John 3:30 <><
