Recently, I asked someone if he wanted to be a Eucharistic Minister and help me distribute Communion at the Altar. The person politely declined, noting that he wanted to be with his wife in the pew. This made sense to me, but it also made me wonder: when was the last time I sat with my wife during a church service?

I really can’t remember. We have a picture of me, my wife, and our first daughter standing and singing together at my field ed. parish in seminary (the notable part of the picture is that the hymnal is clearly upside down, and yet none of us seem to notice). Seminary may have been the last time my wife and I worshipped together in the same pew, and that was seven or so years ago. Since then, I’ve had to vest and sit up front as a preacher, a transitional deacon, and then as a vocational priest.

The strange part of this, for me, and what struck me when thinking about the parishioner who wanted to sit by his wife instead of help to lead worship is this: I’m not really sure what sitting by one’s spouse during worship should be like. When I wasn’t in discernment to become a priest and we sat beside one another on normal Sundays, I don’t remember experiencing the liturgy any differently. And so I wonder: did I miss something? Do couples grow together in a particular way when they pray beside one another? Is the Holy Spirit present in a special way? Or how does receiving the Blessed Sacrament change when your open palms are right there beside your spouses?

I’d love to know the answers to these questions, and so I encourage you to write any thoughts or experiences you’ve had in the comments section below. I do feel as if I have missed something, though I don’t necessarily lament that loss. Choices always come with a loss of some sort. Raising children in church means that you can’t always spend time alone with God in the pew, but not having children means that you don’t have the joy of teaching young Christians the important parts about the faith: God’s love and reconciliation. Taking on one role precludes the other, and vice versa.

What I have gained, I suppose, from not sitting beside my wife during worship is that I’ve been able to give her Communion. That’s always been special for me. I also love giving my daughters Communion, and I also really enjoy giving Communion to my parents and to my mother-in-law. I remember the first time I distributed the Sacrament to my wife’s mom. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as close to her as in that moment. I hope some day to distribute Communion to my best friends, too. But placing the Bread in my wife’s open palms is something I especially cherish. It’s like a renewal of our wedding ceremony each week. For the first two years of my ordained life, I wanted to reach out and hug her whenever I came to her at the altar rail (I still want to hug her, but I want to hug everyone when giving them Communion now, too). I can’t think of any more magnificent gift that I can give her – or that she could give me.

There is something different, though, about praying with one’s spouse. In some of the darker parts of my spiritual journey, my wife taught me how to pray, especially how to pray with St. Mary. She’s been with me in my grief, I’ve been with her in hers, and we’ve been with one another in our shared joy, especially with our children. We’ve agreed to and promised to live our lives together. That promise, and the Sacrament that founds it, changes how any married couple prays, because our voices are now intertwined. My prayers need hers, and hers need mine, and that’s a good thing to need. We don’t have to pray alone anymore.

As a priest, however, my prayer is (at least in part) public. My spirituality is (again, at least in part) public. My prayer and my spirituality either demonstrate different ways to pray or suggests different paths to God. My wife’s prayer and spirituality, however, are only as public as any other Christian’s prayer and spirituality are public – which is very little. All Christians pray and worship together, and we’re always with the great cloud of witnesses – those Christians who came before us – but no one’s watching my wife for when to stand, nor is she asking them to pray the collect together. She will never bid them to “lift up their hearts” as I do at the Eucharistic Prayer. She is in the pews, while I am in front of the people.

We remain connected, however – which is why I ask her to never look at me during the service and especially not during my sermon. Why? Because when she looks at me during the liturgy, I start laughing. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the meeting of public and private, maybe it’s my love for her suddenly coming out, maybe it’s because I wonder if she’s thinking something silly. Whatever the reason, we have a connection that makes me laugh when I’m vested for the Most Blessed Sacrament and have my hands raised to God in petition for all of God’s Creation. And I think that’s fun. I do wonder what it’s like to pray with one’s spouse week after week, but I also lament a bit that so few people are able to experience that bit of laughter and what it’s like to put Jesus’ Body into their spouse’s open palm. We don’t get to do everything in this world, though, and that’s part of what makes life endlessly beautiful.