Nancy Moser

Nancy Moser is the award-winning author of twenty inspirational novels. Her genres include contemporary stories including John 3:16 and Time Lottery, and historical novels of real women-of-history including Just Jane (Jane Austen) and Washington's Lady (Martha Washington). Nancy and her husband Mark live in the Midwest. She’s earned a degree in architecture, traveled extensively in Europe, and has performed in numerous theaters, symphonies, and choirs. She gives Sister Circle Seminars around the country, helping women identify their gifts as they celebrate their sisterhood. She is a fan of anything antique—humans included. Find out more at and


Just as each of us has one body with many members,
and these members do not all have the same function,
so in Christ we who are many form one body,
and each member belongs to all the others.
Romans 12:4–5 (NIV)

I didn’t notice our differences until we stood to sing the first hymn.

The head of the man seated next to me—whose shoulders were in line with mine when we were seated—now came up to my chin.

I slumped. If only I hadn’t worn my peach heels to church I would have . . . still been six inches taller than my most immediate neighbor in the pew.

I’m a tall woman. Five feet nine inches. In my stocking feet. On carpet. Closer to five ten if you make me stand on a hard floor. This is not some new revelation. I’ve been this tall since the eighth grade. Sometimes a plus, but often a minus, I’ve learned to tolerate being a tall woman in a short woman world.

As we started the second verse of the hymn, I spotted a woman two pews up. She made me feel short as she stood next to a man who—if he could dribble a basketball—would be a first round draft pick in the NBA. I straightened my shoulders.

As the music of the organ and our voices filled the room, I further inventoried the congregation. To my right, a man sang with a lustrous bass voice, his jowls trembling with his vibrato. A teen boy stretched the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, his cropped, bleached hair and earring announced to the world that his taste was eons away from mine. A couple behind me jostled a wriggling toddler, their pleas to shush and be still reminded me of the fractured joys of bringing my own little ones into the sanctuary years before. An elderly woman with a flowered hat held the hymnal close to her thick glasses, her shrill soprano soaking into the pages.

We were all different: tall, short, wide, thin, young, old. When we left the church, we’d travel home in SUVs, pickup trucks, and Cadillacs. For Sunday dinner we’d eat fried chicken, chow mein, nachos, and spaghetti. We’d spend the afternoon golfing, reading mysteries, and practicing the drums. We’d go to bed at nine, eleven, or two.

I write. He teaches. She heals. Yet another builds.

I’m married, he’s single, she’s divorced, and the two at the end are both widowed.

Different. And yet the same.

For all of us made the same choice that morning. We came to church. We stood side by side, the height and strength of our shoulders forming a staggered stair step of humanity. We sang together, flat and sharp, loud and soft. We bowed our heads in prayer. The humble. The urgent. The confused. The wise.

We opened our hearts, united in a common goal to know the One who made our differences, who understood the whys of it—even if we did not. The One who died for all, not just some.

“In Christ we who are many form one body . . .”

Our differences make us special, just as our common goal to worship our Almighty, ever-loving God make us one.


Nancy Moser