I was out running Saturday-morning errands when I saw it: a metal sign at the end of the road. “Trinity Church,” it read, with a long black arrow pointing to the left. Sure, I was looking for a new church, but part of me just wanted to keep on driving. What was the point?
Ten churches. That’s how many I’d visited since I’d moved here to Orange, Connecticut, two years earlier. And none of them seemed quite right. Either the congregation was too large, too small, or I didn’t feel welcomed. Why couldn’t I find a church like the one I’d belonged to in Florida? The one that felt like home, where the parishioners were like family? Now, every Sunday I bounced from church to church, feeling like a fish out of water. Lord, I prayed each morning, please help me find the right place to worship you. I was starting to lose hope. Then I saw that sign…
I couldn’t ignore it. I turned my car around and followed the arrow. About five minutes down the road was a charming red brick church. I jotted down the service times listed out front.
The next morning, I walked into Trinity Church, trying not to get my hopes up. Immediately, the congregation greeted me with smiles as if I’d known them for years. The band played traditional and contemporary music—just like the band at my church back in Florida—including two of my favorites: “How Great Thou Art” and “Celebrate Jesus, Celebrate.” This was it! I just knew. I’d found my church home.
As I was leaving, one of the ushers approached me. “Hi,” he said. “I see you’re new here. How did you hear about us?”
“Oh, I just followed the sign up the road,” I answered.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, you must be mistaken,” he said. “We don’t have a sign on that road.”
“Of course you do!” I waved goodbye and walked to my car.
On the way home, I drove down the road that I’d taken to the church. There was no sign. None at all.
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