When you walk in through the front entrance of the church, the one across from the park that hosts the summer orchestral concerts, it’s just a few steps to the sanctuary.
When you take a seat in the second pew, near the pipe organ, you are where my family sat with our green hymnals every Sunday.
When you look at the row of empty chairs beneath the stained glass windows, you will see where my sister and I sang with the youth choir.
When you look ahead to the alter, you will see the lectern where my favorite pastor gave his sermons; the stairs where I kneeled and was confirmed; the place where I stood and finally tasted the wine in those tiny silver cups.
When you exit the sanctuary and cross the hall to the parlor, you are where I sat at the piano and played Chopin nocturnes while my mom finished cleaning the silver.
When you descend the back stairway to the carpeted room with the games and couches, you are where I boldly flirted with the shyest of boys at a youth night gathering.
When you retrace your steps and exit at the landing through the backdoor; you are in the quaint church garden where my two brothers rest among the native lilacs and white daisies.