It is peaceful here.
I'm sitting in a rocking chair, under the breezeway at Pool Camp, looking out over the chigger bowl and listening to the cicadas sing and the distant sound of a lawn mower. Most everyone is gone to Walmart or on some other last-minute errand. The sun is setting, and a light, teasing breeze gently caresses the uppermost tree leaves.
I'm going over the last few things I need to do for worship tomorrow. Get some pens. Find the large cross. Cut some ivy. But somehow even these things seem less important now.
There is a prayer to be said. I don't have my prayer book, so I'm leafing through the pages of my mind.
The collect for purity turns up:
Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, that we might perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.
A few cars go by. A door slams. The mower is still running. But all is peace here where I sit.
What makes a place holy? Why does this place seem holier than some others? Is it the worship that has happened here over the years? Is it the trees and bugs? Is it our expectations? Is it a combination?
What do you think? What makes a place holy? What if people stop using it for a holy purpose? Does it stop being holy?
Note: I wrote this, longhand, last night, since Pool Camp doesn't have internet access or phone signal. I'm quite thankful for that, too.