The Woman in the Back Pew

I used to be afraid of her.

Not in a rational way – in the way a kid is afraid of something they don’t understand.

Like so many stories growing up, this one started in Medina and inside the church with the red doors.

Most of you know it. Maybe you’re a member. Maybe you just drive by or know someone who attends: St. Paul’s Episcopal Church.

It’s where I was baptized, where I went to church until I was a teenager. I think my parents chose it because it felt like a compromise between Catholic and Methodist.

Either way, it was formative in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.

And this story happened behind those red doors.

Every Sunday, we’d walk into church late – my brother and I dragging our feet, my mom trying her best to hold it all together. We’d slip into the back, doing that quiet walk to our pew, trying not to draw attention.

And every time, we’d pass her. She sat in the same spot, back corner, always there.

Older than old – the kind of old where people stop counting.

As I walked by, she would reach out, her hand trembling, motioning for me to come closer.

It scared me, so I never did.

I kept my head down and moved past her as fast as I could.

At the time, my parents had just divorced. I was angry in ways I didn’t know how to name yet. Everything felt like something being done to me.

Including this.

So I avoided her.

Until one day, I mentioned it to my mom on the drive home.

She said, “Did you ever think maybe she just wants to say hi?”

I hadn’t. Not once.

The next Sunday, we came in late again – same walk, same corner.

She reached out, and this time, I did too.

Her hand was soft and unsteady in mine. She pulled me in just a little and said, “God bless you. Every Sunday I see you, you remind me of my son.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded.

Then she added, “He passed away very young.”

For a moment, as I looked at her, I could almost see it – not just who she was, but who she had been, and who she was still holding onto.

After that, I stopped every Sunday.

A handshake. A hello. Nothing big, but it became something I looked forward to.

And then one Sunday, I came back. She wasn’t there.

I turned around during the service. An empty pew.

I saw her name in the bulletin.

She had passed.

On the drive home, my mom said, “It’s too bad about our friend, huh?”

I said, “Yeah.”

And then, after a second, I added, “But I think she’s OK.”

My mom asked why.

I said, “I think she went to go visit her son.”