It's about an hour before the scheduled start of the first Stations of the Cross of this Lent. I'm early, hoping to get to spend some time in prayer before the tabernacle. A number of ladies are buzzing around bringing in dishes for the meal to follow the practice of this ancient tradition of spiritual walking in Jesus' footsteps to Calvary.
The sacristan hasn't arrived and no one knows where the light switches are for the sanctuary. We look all around, behind doors, on the narthex walls. After a few minutes of searching, I go sit in the darkness.
The tabernacle is bathed in the red glow of the sanctuary candle. The space is permeated by the smell of the burning beeswax devotional candles lining two walls. The stained glass windows glow faintly with the day's fading light.
The world fades outside and my vision is consumed by His presence on the altar. It's as if the space is the tomb after they've rolled the stone over the entry. Christ patiently waits in the Eucharist for Easter Sunday.
So, I sit, spending an hour watching with him.
I enjoy our time together until someone breaks the spell with the flip of the light switches.
