I love old, turn of the century (1900s not 2000s) churches. Whenever I drive by an old, abandoned church, I want to stop and go inside and just soak up the history hiding inside. I know they are dilapidated, and in some cases falling down, but the pull to go inside is there.
I wonder what the congregation was like. Were the people rich or poor; young families or old patriarchs? I want to see and touch and even sit on pews that have heard countless messages, songs, and prayers. I want to feel the love that filled the room during weddings, and even feel the despair at the death of a loved one. I want to walk on the floors where children may have ran and played while waiting for their parents. I want to touch the walls and other wooden aspects of the contents, the pulpit, the tables, and other fixtures that were painstakingly chosen to turn this building into a place of worship.
Wooden pieces that which were made by hand in many cases, with workmanship that is nearly unheard of in today’s society. I want to hear the laughter, the conversations and the songs lifted up in worship to God. But most of all, I want to stand in the middle of the rainbow of colors streaming through stained glass windows that have stories to tell. I want to dance in the light, embraced in God’s love. I want to feel the warmth of the sun coming through these windows.
There is something about the colors that just makes me feel warm, loved, and protected. I think about the myriad of colors that can be seen through these windows and wonder at the colors that are not seen. What colors will be found when I reach heaven that makes these colors seem bland and boring?