Beneath the Cross

Friday night I slept in the sanctuary of our church. The youth group was having a lock-in, and after pizza and grapes, prayer and singing, movie and discussion, and games around the fire, it was time to tuck into our sleeping bags. The guys trooped up the hill to the old chapel, and the sanctuary was left to the girls. There were only three of us, and we laid out our beds in the center aisle, overlooked by the cross on the big wall behind the platform. We arranged ourselves so our heads were together, rustled in our sleeping bags until we were comfortable, and chatted. I asked the girls to share a dream, big or small, serious or silly. They shared bits of their heart with me, their trust a treasure. Their dreams are worthy and bigger than they can accomplish on their own, and I pray for them, that they would cling to God tighter than any dream and yet not loose their unique passions and be willing to take risks and jump off cliffs and see what He will do.

And as we lay there I thought about all the shoes that have step, step, stepped up and down that aisle, high heels and polished leather, walking up to receive the body and blood of Jesus broken and poured out for us, carrying those treasures back to their seats. I thought about Dad and Heidi's feet, walking up that aisle side by side five and a half years ago, her feet covered by the white cloud of her dress. And I thought about Aaron and Heidi waltzing down the aisle together, eager partakers of a brand new union.

Here we were, three girls in pajamas and bare feet, camped out on that carpet, sharing a few dreams and drifting off to sleep together in that place perfumed by songs of worship and the partaking of Christ's body and the beginnings of holy unions. It seemed casual, presumptuous even, for the sacredness of the place. But perhaps prostrate and unshod before the holy cross and high calling of our God is the humble and amazingly intimate place He invites us to.