Under the curse?

 Once upon a time, I found grace.

It was God's grace, coming from the one who defines the word.

Thrilled as I was to have a word to describe what I always knew in my heart, 

I talked of it everywhere I went.

Understanding even a tiny bit about grace changed everything.

It changed too much according to the theys, the thems, and those.

They said, 'grace has it's limits, girl'

'you're still under the curse'

That's what they said, when I asked if maybe we worried about things that didn't matter anymore?

They said, 'you're still under the curse'.

Really?

How much sense does that make?

How much sense does that make in 

the light of dark, holy blood

spilled by an exsanguinated savior,

by whom sin and death were wrestled to hell,

and the veil was torn

from top to bottom,

and the sky went dark

and the only Good that ever walked

was buried behind stone. 

Until He wasn't anymore,

because,
then He was alive, because He was
victorious, so
now He is alive!

Where in all that is there still room
to live under the curse?

How is it even possible?

And to say that we are still under the curse is to
accuse Jesus of ailing from
the foulest impotence...

it is to say,
He cannot save us at all.

Do not believe it.
If He saves you from anything,
He saves you from everything.
There is no curse for you, beloved.
You are justified, now be
sanctified.

Changing

The atmosphere outside the door is almost magical

a rarely mixed batch of wind and warmth

the sun shooting through leaves still holding green

October winds ushering out September breezes

as inside the cocoon 

this place is in metamorphosis 

Twenty degrees of heat will be lost by Saturday
clouds will cover sweater- bound citizens
and rain will wash under our boots

But today dry winds muss our hair and sun kisses our arms
And He smiles on us as

He changes us too.

Prodigal

The sun was setting low over the houses across from ours.  The street lights would soon be on,  illuminating the thousands of tiny, flittering bugs that seemed to spawn from those lamps.  The air was thick, like it always was.  Hot and thick.

The evening meal was regular, maybe it was soup with ice berg lettuce and little pieces of chopped tomato served on paper plates.  He was there that night.  His presence always welcomed, yet always heavy like the air around us.  The rattan and metal chair balked at his shifting weight.  As his feet shuffled under the chair, positioning his legs just so, the pain would be better.  He would eat voraciously.  Every last bite of that iceberg lettuce gone.  He'd wipe at the corners of his mouth with napkin first.  Then came the handkerchief for his nose.  Then he would speak.

He bent at the waist, leaning over table.  Thick, rough fingers curved in rest a top the worn glass as if on piano keys.  His burnished skin shone in the dim light of candelabra bulbs.  As usual, his thick silver hair was not a strand out of place.  And in his dark, smiling eyes I saw something new.
I was still a girl really, but old, and old enough to know what the knowing looks like.

He recounts the story of the prodigal son from the Bible.  With lips pressing, then parting, his head tilts and his brow creases deeper.  His thick, brown fingers tap the glass with growing pressure as he is connecting the long ago story with something now,  recent and deeply hidden.  He struggles with the things he cannot put to words.  And never had I seen into his heart like this.

"He's chasing after us, like the father and that son.... the prodigal....  we run from Him and...   He   runs after   us."  he chokes it out with the first tears I can ever remember him shedding.

By some standards, he was already an old man, but I still a child.  I remember thinking my greatest prayer answered.

"Yes Daddy.  He does."

Now

It's this moment, this flash, this twinkling, this instant that I live
the folding my hands are doing, the smoothing of knitted fabric
my hand feeling the slick soft puppy tongue accepting the treat
holding the cool plate while the scent of the warm bacon rises
running my fingers through her hair, stopping and smiling at the tangle
hearing his 10 year old heart pray out loud
relaxing under the hot spray of water on my sleep-stiffened shoulders
counting the times I saw him smile last night
praying for peace at the sight of the candle's flicker
breathing in His Word written in her handwriting
tapping out the reality and hitting click to send
it's not what I did yesterday
it's not what I will do tomorrow
it's now

What is music for anyway?

Believe it or not, I have struggled with the question above.  

When I was a child music was a call to dance, to dream, to escape to somewhere else for the duration of whatever album I (or my sisters) were listening to.  After Jesus found me, music became a way to adore Him.  I loved to sing about Him.  I learned to sing about Him in the youth choir at my church.  I learned about dynamics, tempo, and vibrato.  I learned that some people were very serious about music indeed.

Later, music became a way for me to communicate to Him... not only adoring Him by singing about Him, but realizing I could sing to Him.  This was an amazing discovery for me and a lesson that was unfortunately lost on me in my younger years.  Anyway, I became very passionate about singing to Him, about worshiping Him not only in voice and instrument but in any other way I could think of (or that someone else could think of!).  

I learned (sort of) to play the guitar.  I played and I sang and I taught and learned a lot about worship.  It didn't take very long to learn I wasn't a great musician.  Part of that comes from being surrounded by oh-so-very musical people.  People who are very skilled indeed in making music.  I tried to improve my musicality with lessons and seeking out various instruction.  In fact, my musicality did improve.  But I put away my guitar, and I didn't seek out opportunities to teach about worship so much anymore.  Instead I focused on my technique.... which, by-the-way, I was still convinced would assist me in doing great things for the Lord.... at some point.
I stopped singing songs with my children.

I did teach a worship class for our homeschool co-op, I sang on a worship team at church, but my guitar was collecting dust, and.... I didn't sing at home.  We didn't sing at home.  If you know me, that is a huge confession.

In thinking about it, I know now why that happened.  It's the same reason why I don't write as much as I would like to.  It's because I know that in someone's eyes..... whatever my expression is, is not going to measure up.  And maybe my own worst critic is me.

Now, how incredibly pathetic is that?  It's tragic and sad and a waste.

I wish not to be so wasteful.  Not that I am being wasteful of talent, for my talents are meager indeed, but I have wasted something far more precious.... worship.

By singing and writing and dancing and drawing and creating in anyway you can dream up, we are giving worship because we are doing what we were created to do.

 ¹¹ You turned my wailing into dancing;
       you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,

 ¹² that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.
       O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever.  (Psalm 30)

 ⁶ I will sing to the LORD,
       for he has been good to me. (Psalm 13)

 ¹ Sing joyfully to the LORD, you righteous;
       it is fitting for the upright to praise him. (Psalm 33)


 ⁶ Sing praises to God, sing praises;
       sing praises to our King, sing praises. (Psalm 47)

⁴ All the earth bows down to you;
       they sing praise to you,
       they sing praise to your name."
       Selah  (Psalm 66)

 ³³ I will sing to the LORD all my life;
       I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.  (Psalm 104)

¹⁹Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord,  (Ephesians 5)

¹⁶Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God. (Colossians 3)

 ¹³Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, singing:
   "To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
   be praise and honor and glory and power,
         for ever and ever!"  (Revelation 5)




I dusted off my guitar this morning.  As soon as I started strumming, the Audience of One drew in a congregation of three plus one puppy.  I couldn't remember all the chords and my rhythm was shaky at best.  Our voices didn't exactly come together as one heavenly choir.  Our pitch was iffy.  We sang about His awesomeness, we praised Him.  He was worshiped.


It was beautiful.  No one could convince me otherwise.

I learned an important lesson this morning, one I hope not to quickly forget....

and maybe that's what music is for.