I rounded out my weekend with a Sunday morning visit with Iris. Normally, I would be at Rainbow on Sunday morning, but our schedule was packed so I left early so I could see her and guess what? They were having church.
It seems one of the other resident's daughter-in-law, Debbie, misses church herself each week due to her work schedule, so when she finishes up work at Kroger on Sunday mornings she heads out to Emeritus and has church with the ladies, and Mr. B.
I was quiet at first, but couldn't help doing the motions to This little light of mine, or guessing the tune she whistled; or confirming the "love" chapter is I Corinthians 13. Eventually, I found myself singing along. Loudly. And they didn't care one bit.
No pulpit. No choir. No candles. No dancers. No altar. No schedule of service.
and oh yes, there was an offering.
An offering of praise to God Most High.
I'd look over every so often, and catch teardrops splattering on Grandma's dressy black blazer. She doesn't know how beautiful she is, or how much our hearts ache because we miss her.
Psalm 23 poured over the residents like a balm, many whispered the words as Debbie read them.
After 15 or so hymns, Mrs. E. summed it up best when she reminded us all that it doesn't matter that we may not be singing all the same words, or even the right words but that our hearts are together. I sat there thinking about how my Momma and Daddy had taught me those old hymns when I was very young. They are comforting and come to mind when even my favorite contemporary praise and worship songs escape me.
I wasn't expecting the church service when I walked in on Sunday, but what a sweet time worshipping with precious souls who may not know their names but remember the tunes and feel the peace of His Amazing Grace.
Happy Tuesday y'all.