The Song

I adjust my black sweater

And fold my hands on my black-and-white skirt,

Wonder if I should pass a few more tissues to the row in front of me.

A man in the aisle

Hands out sheets of paper,

And one makes its way to me,

At the opposite end of the row.

I look at the sheet music which has found its way to my lap,

Resting on the black-and-white fabric.

I read the title and the words,

Then decide that maybe I need one of those tissues myself.

It's not one of my absolute favorites -

Actually, I associate it with one other, and I like the other better -

But I do love this song,

And I can't read these words

And not be touched by what they mean -

And be touched all the more by the fact that they meant so much to her.

It isn't until the end that he asks us to sing it,

A cappella in the absence of an instrument.

No accompaniment,

No harmony,

Just a few voices, 

On a hill far away
Stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suffering and shame.
And I love that old cross
Where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.

So I'll cherish the old rugged cross
'Til my trophies at last I lay down.
I will cling to the old rugged cross
And exchange it someday for a crown.

A lot of eyes in the room aren't dry anymore.

As we leave, I make my way to the weeping with lingering hugs.

We move out toward the car.

She tells me it was the Lord's Prayer that did it for her.

He won't say.

I tell them it was that song - the moment they put it in my lap.

Nothing that was done or said meant more to me than that.

Reasons 4335-4346 today,

Just ten -

It's been a struggle lately to find the time -

But I have to keep coming back to this

Because He's all I have,

All I can cling to:

4335. Unless He builds the house, the builders labor in vain (Psalm 127:1)
4336. Unless He watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain (Psalm 127:1)
4337. He grants sleep to those He loves (Psalm 127:2)
4338. Children are a heritage from Him (Psalm 127:3)
4339. Offspring are a reward from Him (Psalm 127:3)
4340. All who fear Him are blessed (Psalm 128:1)
4341. Those who walk in obedience to Him are blessed (Psalm 128:1)
4342. He has cut His people free from the cords of the wicked (Psalm 129:4)
4343. With Him there is forgiveness (Psalm 130:4)
4344. With Him there is forgiveness so that His people can, with reverence, serve Him (Psalm 130:4)
4345. With Him is full redemption (Psalm 130:7)
4346. He Himself will redeem Israel from all their sins (Psalm 130:8)

Counting 10,000 Reasons to worship Him: 

(Sylvia's already made it to - past - 10,000!  So amazing to think of who He is like this!)

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Counting in community:



 

Sunday Mornings

She finds me in the back row

In the back corner

Hunched over a bit,

Head down,

Dabbing at my nose with a napkin

Taken from the coffee table to my right.

She puts her hand on my back

And kneels down beside me

And asks me what's wrong,

If she can pray for me.

I tell her I didn't know it was going to be so hard.

I don't know why I'm so emotional,

(Maybe I can blame it on hormones?)

It seems like such a simple thing,

But Sunday mornings in my family

Have always been kind of special.

I've grown up

And dug down roots

In the family God planted me in,

In the (relatively) small town Ohio soil,

And I don't much like change,

And I do all I can to avoid tension,

And the way things always have been

Is about the way I think things always ought to be.

From the Sunday after I was born

We've always had the same routine:

Get up,

Go to church,

Sit together,

Get lunch together.

Sunday mornings are family time,

Some of the only family time my crazy family gets,

And I don't cry over much,

But I must be pretty nostalgic,

And I must have a strong sense of family,

Because when I think about how much my family loves me

And how much I love them,

It never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

Now things are a little different on Sunday mornings.

My family goes to the church I grew up in

And I don't.

Why?

A lot of reasons.

I'm sick of a few things (things, not people),

I've found a lot of things that just aren't enough,

And I'm hungry for a whole lot more.

And I miss the people.

I miss the building.

I miss the style of worship.

But God's calling me somewhere else,

And He has been for a long time.

So I drive a little farther,

Stay a lot longer,

Try to match new names with new faces

And try to manage being shy while truly desiring to befriend people,

Wanting to invest myself while wanting to be cautious,

And the people love Jesus,

The prayer is from the heart,

The worship is straight to God,

And the sermon doesn't try to dull a two-edged sword.

I haven't felt so hungry for God,

So eager to learn,

So joyful to worship

In a long time.

But the service ends

And I look at my watch

And know that my family's probably already sitting at our favorite restaurant,

Talking,

Just being together.

And I'm not.

And I didn't think I'd get so emotional,

But I just need to sit down . . .

And maybe one of those napkins will help . . .

And maybe I need to stop thinking about this . . .

And maybe I need to think about this . . .

And, God, really,

What is this going to look like?

You're going to have to help me.

I can't do this on my own.

She finds me in the back row,

In the back corner,

Puts her hand on my back,

Listens long

And prays longer,

And that alone was enough

To bring calm and a deep peace,

But after the "Amen", a tight hug, and my immense gratitude,

She listens longer

And gives advice

And encourages.

This woman I just met a week ago

Seems to know me pretty well already,

And just encourages me to do what God's calling me to do,

Go to the church He's calling me to go to,

Wherever that may be . . .

And to tell my family how much I missed being with them,

That, even though I feel I "need to discover God for myself", she said,

I should tell them how much I missed our Sunday mornings.

Sorry, no reasons on my end today.

Busy with a lot this week,

Didn't get much sleep a couple nights.

Learning a lot, though,

And still hungering to know who God is.

(Also, no post next Sunday,

But I may see if I can slip one in before then.)


Counting 10,000 Reasons to worship Him: 

(Sylvia's already made it to - past - 10,000!  So amazing to think of who He is like this!)

<a href="http://maryschieferstein.blogspot.com/search/label/10000%20Reasons" target="_blank"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitidrfBKBWTHSBiWyh3WMRKjHFgYKk-RxjYB9-uePQb1-uI3t3bjysPnR65zloJJ0LgTqhT5kW70Rk8VOC2utXFUWhGRPIxNCqzZ_9YQryYPMJdj2XpiX0oawLUiMnmxFOeMkmjk3IIA/s320/10000ReasonsButton.jpg" /></a>

Counting in community:



 

Wet Moments

It was a beautiful day,

Though oppressively hot.

She begged me to come swimming with her,

He decided to come with us.

We three walked down and began removing the solar cover.

Clear, aqua water waited beneath.

She grabbed the skimmer,

He and I grabbed the camera.

Simple moments of sun and shadows,

Hot air and cool water,

Light making patterns on pool bottom.

The water was soon clear and we all got in.

Usually I like to jump,

But the water was warm enough that I just used the ladder -

92 degrees Fahrenheit,

Yet definitely cooler than the hot, still air.

Toys floated lonely on the water's surface, abandoned.

We dove,

Exploring the underwater world,

However plain and simple,

Giggling and waving at each other,

Bubbles rising up from noses and mouths.

It was one of those times I wished I had a waterproof camera

To capture the joy of being together under the water,

The beauty of the sky seen through the water's surface,

The swimmers brushing the pool bottom.

We spent a long time in that underwater world,

Twisting and bending,

Rising and falling,

Swimming as much like fish as our human bodies would allow

Before we went back into the house,

Red rings from goggles still encircling eyes.

Being there reminded me how much I miss.

I am surrounded by such indescribable beauty, yet I rarely stop to notice it.

I am invited to join them in this water almost every day, yet I often refuse.

I am given many so many simple moments like these,

Water glistening in sun moments,

Wet cheeks touching moments,

Teaching little ones how to do a handstand moments,

Smiling wide moments,

Yet how often do I let the moments pass and not even stop to see?

Isn't this important?

Isn't it much more important than everything else I have to do?

Shouldn't I make time for this?

This joy-sharing with precious young ones

Who will not be young for long,

Who will all too soon be all too old,

Grown,

Gone,

Just like the moments.

Hide and Seek

She asked me to play with her,

To spend my time on her,

Play her favorite game.

I said yes,

For too often I say no,

And how can I say no

When the time I have with these precious ones is so short?

They had a hard time finding me the first two rounds,

On purpose, I think.

He came in, turned on the light, and still did not see.

She walked past me twice,

Came back immediately after finding another

And sat down on top of me.

The third round, I volunteered to be "it".

I grabbed my camera,

Started counting,

Gave the final warning:

". . .23, 24, 25. Ready or not, here I come!"

I headed up the stairs

In the direction the feet had run.

I found him first,

Almost instantly,

Hiding behind door ajar.

I kept searching,

Looking under one bed,

Then another.

(Dirty, aren't they?)

I searched behind the giant inflatable Dora

And behind the couch.

I went to the basement,

Looked underneath everything,

Even under the stairs in the ever-dirty,

Ever-forbidden spot.

I went back upstairs,

Wondering where she could be.

He accused me of not hearing,

Not listening,

Not paying attention.

He said I should have noticed.

I want to notice,

I'm just not that good.

I missed it.

I missed it.

I have to find her.

I went back upstairs,

Remembering the one place I hadn't looked,

Another place that should be on the "forbidden" list

Now that dresses have been moved there.

I peeked in,

Saw her tan legs where they met her white socks.

I found her.

She came out slowly

(Possibly because I was still snapping pictures),

Accepting defeat.

I found her.

It took awhile, but I found her.

I noticed.

The game reminded me of the second verse of a song,

A song that I need to hear over and over again for many reasons,

This being one of them.

I remember running down the hallway playing hide and seek
I didn't know that I was searching for someone to notice me
I felt alone and undiscovered
And old enough to understand
Just when I'm s'posed to be learning to love
You let me down again



"[S]earching for someone to notice me".

Do I notice them?

I was thinking just last night of how often I fail,

How many times a day I'm an awful sister,

How many times I fail to notice.

I want to notice.

I want to be there.

I want to love them

And care for them

And build them up

And lead them in the way they should go,

But how can I

When so often I don't do it myself?

One day I try to notice,

The next I try not to.

I want to notice every day,

To be there for them every day.

It's just so hard.

Please, Lord,

Teach me to notice.

The song "7x70" is written and performed by Chris August.  Many thanks to this artist for his incredible music.








 

"Forgiven and Loved"

I woke up thinking of all I had to do.

Model for Grandma,

Pack some clothes,

Laminate a paper for Mom,

Blog.

I came out after I had finished getting ready,

After my alone time with God,

After combing my hair and putting some gel in.

I ate a couple of pieces of toast,

Then moved to get things done.

I was interrupted by someone wanting to play a game.

In spite of everything on my to-do list, I said yes.

Yes.

Yes, I will play with you.

After beating him at checkers (in spite of not really remembering how to play),

She asked for Clue.

She pulled out the box,

Unfolded the board,

Shuffled three decks of cards

And placed one from each deck on the center of the board.

I slid the cards into the envelope,

Ripped pieces of paper off of the pad,

Asked someone to go get pencils.

I picked up the die,

Rolled a four,

She a nine,

He a ten.

He went first.

Players slid around the board,

Moving from room to room.

Voices guessed,

Mrs. White in the Study with a wrench,

Mr. Green in the Dining Room with the rope,

And the "infamous" Colonel Mustard in the Ballroom with a lead pipe.

Once she did it,

Once I did it,

Once he was terrified that he did it,

That the card in the envelope was his.

Really, his card was in my hand.

There's something about playing the detective,

Some sense of justice

That enjoys eliminating possibilities until only one remains,

Finding the one responsible,

Sometimes even by accident.

After solving the mystery five or six (or seven) times, we put the board away.

The guilty parties had been located and apprehended,

The evidence had been secured.

It was time to move on.

Someone slide the Clue box back into its spot,

Carefully extracted the box of Apples to Apples cards.

I thought for a moment of how we are all guilty,

How we are all imperfect,

How we all mess up so much,

How, in so many ways, I am like the character I used

Whose card inevitably ends up in the envelope much more frequently than those of the others.

In spite of it all,

We have all been offered a way out,

A way to be forgiven,

A way to learn to change,

A way to be made new.

We just have to take it.

She opened the box,

Said seven,

We each grabbed that number.

Someone flipped over a green card,

Became the judge,

Reminding me of another Judge,

Judging the feeble attempts of the imperfect,

Seeing our failures,

Noticing the few successes,

Just, but merciful,

Forgiving those who believe in His act of justice,

Not condemning the guilty who have been forgiven.

No condemnation.

Forgiven and loved.

The song "Forgiven and Loved"  is performed by Jimmy Needham.  Many thanks for this wonderful reminder that there is no condemnation and we truly are forgiven and loved.

Created

They asked.

After all, it's a tradition.

We always do this on the Fourth of July,

Just as Mom did growing up.

They asked for Mom and Dad to get them out,

To open the packages,

Light the flames.

The tanks were empty,

So Mom went inside to get a candle.

Once the flames were lit, Dad gently moved one of the thin sticks into the fire.

After a few seconds, it sparked to life.

He handed it to one who was eagerly waiting,

Then another was lit and placed into the hands of another young one.

Soon, both were running up and down, back and forth,

Brandishing and waving sparking sparklers.

One held it high, like an Olympic torch.

Another traced letters with the light.

Smoke hung in the air as they ran and giggled and jumped.

All too soon, few were left.

I moved closer to get a few more pictures,

Then paused,

Looked up.

A sliver of moon shone in the still-bright sky,

A piece of perfect creation intersecting with imperfect creation,

The creation of the Creator shining down on the creation of the created.

The last sparklers were lit,

Waved high in the sky

Until they were gone.

Then she saw it, too,

Perched on her hand,

Called me over with my camera,

Asked me to take a picture.

The first one came out dark.

I pressed the button again.

The picture took at the exact moment before it flew,

Wings spread, ready for takeoff:

A firefly,

A tiny bit of the light God provided,

Flying in the air still-smoky from our imperfect light, created by human hands.

The creation of the Creator met the creation of the created.