A Lenten Pause at Trinity Church in NYC
This post: A Lent reflection from a Holy Week visit to Trinity Church.
I wasn’t expecting to find peace in the middle of Manhattan. But that’s the way sacred things tend to happen, isn’t it?
Not always in the early mornings at home or during well-planned devotions—but in the unexpected hush of a city cathedral, when your feet are tired and your soul is more tired still.
A Trip for Two (and a Turn Inward)
I was in New York City for our youngest daughter’s senior trip—a whirlwind few days filled with all the typical city magic: bright lights, Broadway, street vendors, and endless walking.
My suitcase was packed with snacks and backup shoes. My mind was still partially back at home, juggling to-dos and the quiet ache of this new season of letting go.
Emily and I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at a French café on Broadway Street, happy to escape the dreary weather outside for a bit.
Once the rain let up, we took to the sidewalks again and meandered through lower Manhattan, surrounded by towering buildings and the steady hum of city life—and that’s when I noticed it: Trinity Church.
A Sacred Invitation: a Lent Reflection
I’ve heard of it, of course. This historic Episcopal church dates back to the late 1600s and has stood through wars, fires, and the ever-shifting skyline of the city. It’s been rebuilt, restored, and preserved—but even more than its architecture or age, what caught me was the peace I could feel just standing outside its doors.
Something about it whispered, Come in. Be still.
So we did. We hustled up the front steps and were ushered inside with a crowd, just as the doors closed.
The moment we stepped into the sanctuary, everyone fell quiet. I don’t just mean the noise level—although that certainly changed. We had arrived just as a Lent reflection began in the form of a traditional service.
Also read: “Easter Devotions for Families: A Curated Guide of Books, Printables & Readings”
The Sanctuary and the Silence
As my daughter and I slid quietly into a wooden pew, a deep calmness fell over the room like a reverent hush. My heart. My thoughts. The swirl I’d been carrying for days. It all softened in the hush of stone and stained glass.
The sanctuary rose above me in grand arches and warm light. The stained-glass windows were vibrant with color, casting jewel tones across old pews and older saints carved into the altar.
The air smelled of wood and wax and history. And reverence.
The windows drew my eyes heavenward. As my gaze wandered, I felt my shoulders fall.
All around us were other wanderers—some tourists, some locals, a few clearly deep in prayer. No one spoke. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the curate’s robe, a creaking pew, the deep tones of the pipe organ.
What Lent Reminded Me
It was Lent. A season of remembering, of preparing, of slowing down on purpose.
But I hadn’t slowed down yet—not really. Life had been busy, beautiful, full… but not still.
And I think God knew I needed a place where I couldn’t multitask. Where my phone didn’t matter. Where silence was the most holy invitation of all.
I thought about how many people have sat in those pews over the centuries. How many prayers were whispered here. How much heartache and hope and ordinary faith had filled that space.
And then I thought about my own life.
How easy it is to rush through seasons—even sacred ones—because we think we’re supposed to get it right. To make Holy Week meaningful. To plan the perfect Easter. To “feel” something spiritual.
But sitting there in Trinity Church, I remembered:
We’re not the ones who make this season holy. He is.
We don’t earn resurrection joy by performing well during Lent. We don’t make Good Friday weightier by crying harder. We don’t bring anything to the cross except our need.
And Jesus meets us in that need. Again and again and again.
A Moment That Stays
Emily and I sat through our very first Lenten service and Eucharist that day. Later in the week, we both agreed that wandering into that holy stillness was one of the most meaningful moments of our entire trip.
And as I walked back out into the city’s rhythm—and a few days later, back into the hum of busy life as a wife and mom—I carried something with me I hadn’t arrived with: a sense of peace that didn’t come from doing more, but from finally stopping long enough to receive it.
I hope I never forget the stillness and absolute calm I experienced in that sanctuary. I relive it a little every day—during early morning hours, in tiny breaks throughout my days, on quiet evening walks.
This trip became more than a getaway or a memory with my daughter—it became a Lent reflection I’ll carry long after Easter passes.
And I’m learning that holy moments aren’t limited to stained glass cathedrals or other-worldly sanctuaries on famous streets.
We carry access to the Holiest Place within our hearts—if we’re wise enough to pause and sit in the peace of His presence.
“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
—Matthew 11:28Create Your Own Sacred Pause
If today’s reflection stirred something in you—maybe a longing for stillness, or a quiet pull back toward peace—I’d love to invite you into my Weekly Reset for Introverts.
Inside: calming prompts, space to exhale, and gentle encouragement every Friday morning.
xo, Kristy
P.S. I’d love to hear from you—has a place ever surprised you with peace like that? Tell me about it in the comments.
