Every church has one—a quiet soul who becomes part of the furniture. Miss Ethel was ours.
For 42 years, she sat in the third pew from the front, far left side. She arrived before anyone, and left after the final hymn faded. She always wore a soft scarf, pressed blouse, and a gold locket she never opened. She never sang too loudly. Never made a fuss. Never asked for anything.
I first noticed her when I was 16. My parents had just split, and church felt like the only stable place left. I didn’t know why I looked for her each Sunday—maybe for consistency, maybe for comfort. But she was always there.
People spoke kindly of her, but distantly. “Miss Ethel lost her husband young.” “Her only son moved away after college—hasn’t returned since.” She never spoke of it herself.
That Sunday I arrived late, I felt awkward walking in during the opening hymn. My seat in the back was taken. All that was left… was beside Miss Ethel.
She saw me standing, uncertain. She patted the space beside her with a warm smile.
I sat.
We didn’t say much. But when the pastor mentioned “the ones we carry in our hearts,” I saw her grip that gold locket tightly. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
I didn’t mean to, but I placed my hand over hers.
She didn’t let go.
After the service, she turned to me and whispered, “Thank you for sitting with me.”
From that day on, I did every week.
Months passed. Then years.
When I went away for college, I wrote her letters.
When I came back to visit, she always saved that space for me.
On the day she passed, the locket was opened for the first time in decades. Inside was a photo of a young man—her son—and a note behind it that read:
“Tell someone you love them today. Even if you’re scared.”
She never got to tell her son goodbye.
But I like to think… sitting with me helped her say it anyway.
And now, every Sunday, I sit in that same pew—third from the front, far left side.
I’m never alone.
