The weathered white wood of the simple spire comes into view as I crest the gentle hill.

The narrow dirt road leading to the country chapel is overgrown with tufts of sturdy grasses and haphazard rocks. It’s rutted and a bit uneven from so many years of weather, shoes and tires making their way to church.

The land around the chapel is wild and untamed. Nature has reclaimed this place and surrounded it with beauty, as if cradling the abandoned chapel in lovely colors and peace, so much peace.  It feels protected and safe. The Creator is here.

Tall, wispy flowers and assorted meadow grasses bend and sway as a light breeze sighs through, bringing movement and faint whisperings of years gone by.

An old pine tree rises up just behind and to the right of the old chapel. The branches are thick and heavy with a few quirky curves to its old trunk. The old tree has seen and heard so much life, death, joy, and sorrow. The tattered remnants of a rope swing sway and shift with the breeze. Visions of ponytails sailing out behind the swinger with shrieks of joy as the swing takes its rider higher and higher! Freedom!

Looking up, I see leaves, sticks and a piece of bright red yarn entwined and fashioned into a sturdy nest settled into the crook of a branch. Humanity may have abandoned this country chapel, but nature still finds shelter and a home here.

Taking a seat on a weathered stone bench under the tree, I imagine these pine branches shading long tables of cold, homemade lemonade, tasty potluck dishes and desserts on a warm Sunday afternoon, as congregants share a meal and life together.  If I listen closely, I hear muted laughter and the sharing of gossip and recipes passed down through the years. Those family recipes will make an appearance at every potluck gathering. Belonging.

Becoming more accustomed to the sounds of silence, I hear bird song and buzzing bugs along with the creak and groan of the old pine settling and shifting with the breeze and old age. A fluffy, grey squirrel spies on me as it chatters and flicks its tail. One could sit here all day letting the imagination and nostalgia go where they will…

I make my way to the offset wooden steps of the chapel that creak and shift under my feet. The wooden door’s paint is peeling, and the bottom has been gnawed and scratched by a creature seeking shelter.

Inside the chapel the hush and silence are palpable. High windows are covered in dust and streaks with a few broken and missing panes, but the light that streams in is lovely and warm – like an invitation to come and rest.

There are ten rows of off-kilter pews on each side of the chapel with a few missing or cracked in places. A tattered red-leather hymnal lies on the edge of one. Some of the pages have been nibbled off and perhaps taken as bedding for a small creature that found safety here.

As I move forward between the rows, I notice one pew has initials carved into the wood, KC was here. Another has a stick horse and flowers etched into it. Lorraine loves James is written in orange pen on the back of one with some little hearts surrounding the words. Life was lived here.

The altar is simple and pure on its raised-up flooring. It appears to be handmade and sturdy. It’s beautiful. Echoes of sermons, wedding vows and funeral memorials whisper and float on the still, dust-moted air. The chapel may be abandoned but it’s holy and alive with memories.

I sit for a bit in the front pew and allow the peace, mystery, and silence of this old chapel to speak and heal. It does. The supernatural is afoot. It can be felt in the slight shiver that pricks the back of the neck and dances along the spine. There is no room for fear here; it’s lovely, divine, and healing. Beautiful.

The light begins to shift as the day moves on and I head to the side door leading out to the left. It’s loose on the rusty hinges and makes a squeaking noise as I push it open and go out.

A lopsided picnic bench sits in the shade of an old, gnarled cherry tree. The legs hidden by the meadow grasses – the keepers of this place.  Sitting in the shade, I take in the weathered boards, streaked windows and lonely cross that sits atop the small spire of this country chapel. I’m struck with the thought that the Father met with his beloved within those walls. He healed, loved, and wept with them. He rejoiced, danced, and comforted them. The sacred holiness of that still permeates and flits within those abandoned walls. But we mustn’t try to contain Him inside physical walls, exclusivity, strict rules, or joyless routine. No! He is found under the gnarled old tree where someone sat pouring out their deepest heart wounds and pain. He heard every word, healed, and exchanged the pain for joy and peace. He did this as the birds sang, wildflowers soothed with their beauty and the breeze took the prayers and cries tossing them up into His ever-open hands to receive, heal and restore. He isn’t tame, safe, or containable. His love is fierce, wild, joy-filled and all consuming. He can be found within the walls of a sweet country chapel, but just as often I find Him in the wild places with dancing wildflowers, leafy trees, creatures, and breathtaking beauty.

My time here is complete. So many lessons learned from the old and abandoned. This country chapel with its divine murmurs and lonely beauty spoke volumes to me as I sat in the memories, nostalgia and quiet. This old chapel and the nature that cradles and shelters it healed, comforted, and spoke to my soul in ways a spoken word never could. Divine whispers float and swirl all around us – may we have the ears to hear it and hearts to discern it.