Some griefs come to church with us. The empty pew where someone used to sit. The chair at the table where a place is still, in the heart, set. This sonnet honors those quiet absences, and the God who welcomes the grief we cannot leave at the door.
The Sonnet
The pew beside me is a quiet space, Where once a beloved presence used to be, Who sang along, and joined the standing place, And knew the hymns and psalms as well as me. Today I sit alone within the row, The empty seat a small and constant ache, A silence I have carried here to know Alongside every prayer that I can make. And yet the empty pew is holy ground, A testament to love that would not leave, A memory the sanctuary has found A room to hold, a right to make, and grieve. So I will sit beside the absent seat, And bring the grief that makes my prayer complete.
Reflection
Grief does not stay outside the sanctuary. It comes in with us, sits beside us, prays with us. The empty pew where a beloved once sat is not a distraction from worship. It is part of the worship. It is the sanctuary receiving the fullness of what we have lived, the losses included.
Some churches have grown uncomfortable with this. They want the service to be uplifting, forward-facing, resolved. But the God we come to worship is the God who wept at the tomb of Lazarus. He is not embarrassed by our tears in his house. He gathers the empty pews into the larger prayer of the whole gathered community, and the grief itself becomes a way of loving that is not less holy than the singing.
If you sit beside an empty seat this week, do not apologize for the ache it brings. Bring it in with you. The One who receives our worship also receives our grief, and both belong in the room.
