I love Sundays. On Sundays I get to hear him. On Sundays he lets down his guard and his inner most is casually displayed in the simple words of a song.
Years ago I sat in church and heard it for the first time. The songs didn’t matter, the place didn’t matter. He sang right to me, without even looking my direction. His focus was on Him, not on me, and I fell in love. Ten years have passed since that first day and I still feel it. Music fills the space with itention and purpose, people wait with anticipation to encounter something more than themselves. I too wait for my guard to fall and the graceful peace of His presence to change my anxious heart. Then he sings. I hate to admit that my focus is temporarily shifted. The smile spreads across my face without intention. I feel like God is opening His hand and offering me a gift. Something real, tangible and only for me.
Other people may feel moved by his voice or led closer to God in a time of worship. They may experience a peace that passes understanding or a joy that is, in part, precipitated by the melody spilling softly from him. I, however, feel both God’s presence and a deep abiding thankfulness for God’s provision.
This last Sunday my mind was elsewhere. I was feeling pulled into the realities of my world, my lonely details. He was sitting next to me singing, yet I wasn’t feeling connected to him or to the One who brought me. Then, slowly, a song of tradition and age began. As he lifted his voice there was something moving out of his heart and into the space between us. His voice, classically trained, resonnated with history. I could almost see him as a small boy, repeating with earnest the words on the page. The sound moved around the notes and through my heart. The barrier was removed and my soul was able to receive.
God may meet me in worship and do the hard work on my callous heart. Yet, I am so lucky that God often uses my husband’s soft voice to lead me there.Read More