One Pew Up
Finding community one row at a time
It was raining this morning when I walked into St. Luke’s Episcopal Church.
Fr. Nick has been gently — and sometimes seemingly begging — us every Sunday that our Lenten discipline this year is simple: get to know one another. Not in a surface way. In a real way. I hear him say it every week.
I don’t always act on it.
Today, though, I had to.
My friend Drew (another usher) and his wife were sitting in my usual spot. No big deal, there are no assigned pews at St. Luke’s, so I moved forward exactly one row. Not across the aisle. Not to a different section. Just one single pew.
That tiny change did everything.
We started talking, and I realized that while I’d met Drew before, I hadn’t actually taken the time to know him. Now I know what he does for a living. I know he’s about to retire. And just like that, I made a new friend.
All because I moved up one pew.
The whole service felt different after that.
For once, instead of staying in my row for the Peace, I walked out and around. I was a little surprised so many people passed the Peace using my name.
I watched the children go up for communion and blessings from a different angle — light-up sneakers, tutus, tiny hands folded together, barely containing their excitement. They leaned forward so eagerly that their moms had to gently hold them by the backs of their jackets to keep them from sprinting to the altar rail.
They live fearlessly and joyfully.
They run to Fr. Nick for a blessing, impatient with the line, heads tilted up, waiting for that soft touch. And when it comes, they skip away like they’ve been given wings.
There is no hesitation in them. No overthinking. No wondering if they belong.
They simply go.
I sat there thinking about how many Sundays I’ve stayed in my comfortable place. How many conversations I’ve almost had. How many people I’ve almost known.
One pew didn’t just move my body this morning.
It moved my heart.
I think that’s what Lent is probably supposed to be like — not grand gestures or dramatic sacrifice. Maybe it’s just being willing to sit somewhere new. To say hello first. To listen longer. To notice the children running toward grace.
Maybe it’s realizing that community doesn’t ask us to leap across the sanctuary.
Sometimes, it just asks us to move up one row. I hope someone nudges me out of my pew next week and I make another new friend.
