The Still Point

“There’s a breath the chapel takes before worship begins. And if you’re still enough, you can feel it breathe you back.”

The chapel always possessed a distinctive quality of respiration in the precious few minutes before sacrament meeting officially commenced—breathing differently than at any other time during the week, inhaling and exhaling with the particular rhythm that belonged to a sacred space preparing itself for collective worship. It wasn’t quite silence in any technical sense, but rather a layered, expectant kind of stillness that seemed to hover just above the assembled congregation like an invisible canopy of reverence.

The soundscape was its own kind of liturgy. Gentle whispers wove delicately through the sanctuary like threads of human presence, accompanied by the soft percussion of footsteps treading cautiously across carpeted aisles. Pages turned with quiet intent, the thin paper of scriptures whispering against itself as fingers sought out familiar verses.

From near the front came the occasional crystalline clink of rings against glass as the deacons, young and solemn in their freshly ironed shirts, carried the trays of water from the preparation room to the sacrament table.

Our usual pew awaited us in its familiar location. It had never been claimed by right or written nameplate, but it belonged to us in the quiet, mutually acknowledged way that long attendance earns. Close enough to demonstrate commitment and attentiveness, yet not so near the front as to suggest spiritual ambition or invite the unrelenting scrutiny of visiting speakers. A spot that offered visibility without exposure.

Though there were no official seating allocations in our congregation, years of repeated practice had formed an unspoken geography. We knew the rhythm of the chapel as surely as we knew the contours of our own lounge room.

The Williams family would be diagonally behind us, their children already seated in descending order of age and attention span. The Knight’s would take their place near the back corner, from where Brother Knight could manage his ushering duties with quiet efficiency. And Sister Henderson, as ever, would be nestled into her back-row aisle seat, her walking frame tucked just so to allow passage without impediment—a place earned through decades of faithful presence and community affection.

Noah entered the pew first. I followed, brushing the edge of my skirt smooth with a hand that had long since memorised the feel of chapel fabric beneath palm. That small gesture had become ritualised—part modesty, part readiness, part muscle memory from years of transitioning between the tasks of arrival and the posture of worship.

Around us, the congregation continued its own gentle settling, as if the entire room were slowly drawing breath and releasing it together. Coats were folded and draped with care, the swoosh of wool against polished pew wood a soft refrain beneath the organ’s gentle prelude. Scriptures emerged from bags with the solemnity of holy objects, their cracked spines and underlined margins bearing silent testimony to years of personal devotion. Children were quieted with whispered negotiations and carefully rationed snacks—raisins handed out like sacramental offerings from patient hands, dummies retrieved with the reflexes of experienced parents.

It was, in its entirety, a living liturgy. A shared preparation not only for ordinance but for communion—with God, with each other, with the best versions of ourselves we hoped to bring into that space, if only for a few sacred moments.

From our vantage point, I could easily observe Jerome in his appointed position near the sacrament table, seated among a row of young men clad in crisp white shirts and ties knotted with varying degrees of teenage precision. His own posture was characteristically upright—shoulders squared, spine aligned with quiet discipline—as though every vertebra had been enlisted in support of the solemnity of his calling. There was nothing stiff or performative in the way he held himself; rather, it was a posture born of internal conviction, as if reverence had settled into his bones instead of merely his behaviour.

His face, composed and alert, bore the thoughtful stillness of someone who grasped, instinctively and deeply, the significance of his role—not just as a distributor of emblems, but as a participant in the spiritual nourishment of his fellow Saints. He did not fidget or glance about in search of external validation. Instead, he simply was—present, grounded, engaged. It struck me, not for the first time, that he carried his priesthood responsibilities with a kind of natural dignity that men twice his age often struggled to approximate, even after years of service and countless lessons about the importance of reverence.

The navy tie he’d chosen that morning—carefully debated, diligently knotted—stood out in pleasing contrast against his shirt, the fine white pinstripe catching the ambient light in subtle rhythm as he moved. It sat centred and tidy, proof that his early morning efforts at the ironing board had been both successful and, mercifully, free of property damage. He looked, I thought with a quiet swell of maternal pride, like exactly the sort of young man any sensible girl would be pleased to find beside her in a chapel pew.

To my right, just visible past the edges of gathered coats and quietly folded programmes, Evelyn was in her element. Stationed among both her immediate and extended family—who had managed to fill not one, but two full pews on the opposite side of the chapel—she moved with the seamless coordination of a woman long accustomed to orchestrating calm from the edges of commotion. There was grace in her hands as she rearranged hymnbooks, offered tissues, and adjusted a wayward sleeve with the same composed energy she once brought to navigating five-a-side footy matches and Sunday roasts that fed twenty.

She worked like a conductor beneath a hush rather than a score, each small action part of a greater, invisible choreography—ensuring her elderly father had his cushions just so, checking that her daughter-in-law had not been left without a pen or programme, gently shepherding one of her more distractible grandchildren into an appropriate posture without the need for words.

Though we rarely shared a pew—our families’ differing seating habits and logistical demands keeping us separated during the formal block—I knew she would locate me in the congregation. She always did. Her eyes passed steadily across the chapel with quiet purpose until they found mine, and I lifted my hand in a subtle wave, nothing too demonstrative for the setting, but enough to register the moment of connection.

She responded in kind, with the faintest upward tilt of her lips—a look that existed somewhere between affection and amusement. Not quite a full smile, not in that space of pre-sacrament solemnity, but a clear message nonetheless: I see you. I’m here too.

Then, just as naturally, her attention returned to the child beside her—a granddaughter whose clip-on hair accessory had begun to veer dangerously off-centre. Evelyn straightened it with such measured care that one might have assumed the child were preparing for a formal portrait rather than a routine service.

That was Evelyn distilled to her essence—simultaneously everywhere and entirely present, a woman whose attention could span an entire room without ever leaving the person immediately in front of her feeling unseen. It was that precise quality that had made her a cherished companion in Visiting Teaching assignments and a treasured friend in all the years since.

I turned my attention forward toward the front of the chapel, preparing to settle into the contemplative frame of mind that sacrament meeting required, only to discover Brother Evans hovering beside our pew with the particular expression of someone who had important information to convey. His church bulletin was already rolled into a precise scroll in one hand—a sure sign that he intended to discuss either administrative details or doctrinal observations that he considered worthy of immediate attention.

“Brother Noah, Sister Greta,” Brother Evans greeted us with the particular warmth that belonged to someone who had just made an exciting discovery and was eager to share it with the appropriate parties.

He extended his hand to Noah with the firm grip that characterised men of his generation, then offered me a gentle pat on the shoulder—the kind of respectful physical contact that acknowledged both my presence and the formal boundaries that governed such interactions in church settings.

“I was just spending some time perusing the old records in the church library this past week and managed to discover something absolutely fascinating about your family's historical connections to our community,” he continued with obvious enthusiasm for his research findings.

He leaned in slightly to speak with more discretion, lowering his voice in deference to the reverent atmosphere now settling gently over the congregation. And in that moment, I felt the familiar yet always surprising shift that occurs when the ordinary becomes momentarily touched by the extraordinary. It was as though we’d stumbled across a spiritual footnote someone had forgotten to include in the programme—an unexpected convergence of personal and communal histories revealing themselves in a hushed corner of the chapel.

The stories that emerged from Brother Evans’s research suggested that the Smith family narrative ran not just through the branches of our own carefully documented genealogy, but also through the deeper foundations of this particular congregation. Our family, it seemed, was not merely part of the present community but embedded in its very origin story. The revelation came with a quiet sort of awe—a humbling sense that our place on these pews had been, in some way, foreshadowed by faithful footsteps taken long before we arrived.

“I've always been genuinely fascinated by their stories,” Noah replied with characteristic modesty, though I could see the subtle shift in his expression—the barely contained pride that surfaced in moments like this, where legacy and personal identity intersected. “It’s a legacy that we hold very dear, even though we don’t always fully understand the scope of their influence.”

Brother Evans’s scholarly interest sharpened visibly at that, his head tilting slightly, eyes bright behind his glasses as though already charting the footnotes and future conversations such an admission might invite.

“I thought you and your parents were originally born in England and migrated here as a family unit? I’m trying to reconcile the genealogical timeline with what I’ve discovered in the historical records.”

“That’s absolutely correct,” Noah affirmed, his tone patient and measured—the voice of a man well-accustomed to recounting this oft-repeated narrative with unwavering respect. “My immediate family came to Australia when I was still a young boy, part of that post-war wave of British families seeking new opportunities in the colonies. But my great-grandfather was one of the early church members back in England, and he actually spent several extended church missions right here in Australia during the pioneering period. According to the family records we’ve managed to preserve, he was quite instrumental in helping to establish the Lord’s work in this part of the country.”

Brother Evans nodded, visibly gratified by the confirmation, his internal catalogue of facts slotting into place with the satisfaction of a puzzle piece finding its rightful position.

“Indeed, Brother Noah, it’s a legacy that continues to enrich and strengthen all of us,” he said with quiet reverence, the words carrying more than mere compliment. “The roots of the Smith family’s commitment do indeed run remarkably deep in this community, intertwining with the personal stories and spiritual journeys of virtually every member who gathers here each Sunday. It really is quite a beautiful tapestry when you step back and consider how these individual threads come together to create something far more complex and meaningful than any single story could achieve on its own.”

With a final nod that served as a sort of benediction over the entire conversation, Brother Evans resumed his methodical passage down the aisle, his rolled bulletin still held with scholarly purpose as he paused at each occupied pew like a man conducting an informal census of sacred inheritance. There was something almost archival in the way he moved—his gaze sweeping with the gentle intensity of someone curating a living museum of faith.

I watched him disappear gradually into the growing congregation, then let my gaze drift across the chapel in my own silent survey. Familiar faces and family clusters filled the pews with quiet deliberation. A few late arrivals moved briskly but respectfully, heads slightly bowed as if in apology, locating the remaining spaces with quiet discretion.

The meeting was moments away from beginning.

Bishop Hahn approached the stand with his characteristic measured pace, scriptures tucked neatly under one arm and that particular expression of gentle authority worn by men who had come to understand the weight of spiritual leadership without allowing it to bow their shoulders. His appearance at the pulpit marked more than a practical beginning; it served as a subtle liturgical signal—the gradual dimming of communal murmur, the soft drawing in of breath that meant the informal portion of our gathering was coming to a close. We were shifting now, collectively, into something more reverent.

A moment later, Chloe Baker made her entrance, moving with that quiet poise that belonged to young women who had been raised in the subtle art of public composure. She slipped gracefully into her family’s row, her posture poised, every movement unhurried but assured. The jacket she wore struck me as just a touch too sophisticated for her age—its tailoring precise, its cut belonging more naturally to someone a decade older—but somehow it didn’t look borrowed or affected. On Chloe, it looked deliberate. Earned. She had that rare ability to wear adulthood lightly, without appearing in a rush to inhabit it.

Charles noticed her, of course. He always did. The awareness lit in him immediately—the small tilt of the head, the minute adjustment in his posture, the purposeful focus on absolutely anything else in his immediate line of sight. It was the type of careful inattention that only teenage boys seemed to think was inconspicuous. To any mother watching, it was entirely transparent: the classic hallmarks of a heart trying hard not to betray itself. He attempted to look unaffected, the picture of dutiful priesthood preparation, but the alertness in his frame gave him away.

He stood near the sacrament table with the other priests and deacons, immersed in the sacred rhythm of trays and cloths and careful handling. His shirt, mercifully, was tucked. His shoes gleamed in a way that suggested actual effort—polish, perhaps even buffing—and his tie, though lacking the mathematical symmetry of Jerome’s, was at least cooperative. His hair, however, remained predictably incorrigible. Despite evidence of recent grooming and some likely misadventure with gel or mousse, it retained its characteristic rebellion, a soft halo of tousled resistance that no product seemed capable of quelling entirely.

That hair, paired with the faint but unmistakeable undercurrent of nervous energy he always carried in public religious settings, made something in me ache with affection. It wasn’t fear I saw in him—it never was—but a kind of alert self-awareness, as though he felt the weight of being observed and wanted, deeply, to get things right. Not to impress, necessarily, but to rise to the occasion with quiet dignity. He wasn’t quite at ease, but he was trying. He always tried.

His eyes flicked occasionally to Jerome, as if drawing reassurance from his brother’s calm. Jerome, already positioned behind the sacrament table, exuded that steady presence he seemed to slip into effortlessly in these moments. His head bowed, hands resting gently, body still in that quiet way that signalled inward focus. He didn’t merely perform his calling—he inhabited it. There was no show, no self-consciousness. Just service, reverent and assured.

The two of them, there together—Jerome serene and grounded, Charles charged with adolescent intensity barely held in check—stirred a sensation in me that reached beyond pride. It was deeper than that. It was gratitude, and wonder, and the aching sweetness of time slipping by. A mother’s quiet realisation that somehow, in the midst of forgotten lunchboxes and mismatched socks, boys became men. And I hadn’t entirely seen when it happened.

Sister Crofton brought her prelude to a close with a softened diminuendo, her hands lifting from the keys in a movement that carried the grace of long-practised ritual. Her music had done its work—subtly reorienting our focus, smoothing the edges of transition between conversation and contemplation. The final chords lingered for just a breath, a gentle echo settling into the silence they left behind.

Around us, the congregation quietened with synchronised instinct. There was no formal cue, no spoken direction—just that unspoken agreement that we had reached the still point where worship began. A final rustle of pages, the muted shuffling of hymnbooks being placed neatly on laps, the delicate creak of pews adjusting to bodies now still.

And then Noah reached for my hand.

It was a gesture we had repeated so many times it no longer required thought. Just a brief touch—his fingers closing lightly around mine, warm and familiar. It lasted no more than a moment, a single beat of quiet pressure, but it was enough. Enough to root me, to remind me. We had walked many Sundays side by side—through grief and gladness, through long years of child-rearing and calling-fulfilling and covenant-keeping. That one touch held the weight of all those mornings. It didn’t need to say anything. It simply said: I’m here.

And that, as always, was enough to carry me into worship.