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First Posted: 12/19/2014
By Kathleen L. Norman
Chester Township, Clinton County, Ohio
I know my mind shouldn’t wander in church. But like the six-year-old fidgeting next to me, my thoughts never behave.
The grocery list. A project at work. The elderly man sitting in front of me.
But the man in front of me isn’t really there. He died four years ago.
And every Sunday I think about him. Then I wonder why I think about him.
His name was Jack Boyd. He was a tall, distinguished looking man with white hair and a black overcoat, always dressed impeccably for church.
My family had been members of the church for only two years before he died. The only words we ever exchanged were based on the pastor’s directive to “Greet each other in the name of the church.”
During the two years we sat in the pew behind him, my mind often wandered while staring at the back of his head. I spent the first half of one sermon wondering if he had served in the military and the second half guessing whether he served in World War II.
He always came alone, a widower. While studying the stained glass windows, I wondered about his wife.
I speculated on his livelihood while the choir sang.
Later I would learn he was a well-known surgeon, a tireless local and national advocate against cancer, a veteran of the U.S. Navy, beloved husband, father and friend.
As I consider the vacant pew in front of us, I find myself thinking about legacy and memory and what we leave behind.
I wonder why I never think of him when I drive past the multimillion dollar regional cancer center that bears his name, but can’t stop thinking about him when I sit in the oak pew of the Methodist church.
A person’s choice of seats in church is oddly proprietary. With the exception of brief forays to the balcony and the front row, my family always sits in the same place – give or take a pew. In fact, seated all around us are the same people who have always been seated all around us ever since our first visit.
Then one Sunday something occurs to me.
When our family first claimed a pew, did we actually take his? Some Sunday when he was not there did we take his seat? Perhaps the following Sunday he paused for a moment when he returned, saw the new family in his pew, and then seated himself in the row in front of us.
My husband bumps my elbow, interrupting my train of thought. He raises an eyebrow toward the choir. It’s time to sing. I guiltily grab the worn blue hymnal and stand, the book falling open to the dedication on the inside front cover.
“This Hymnal is presented for the glory of God by Jack and Mary Boyd,” it says. I smile and think to myself, “Greet each other in the name of the church.”
“Good morning, Jack. We saved you a seat.”