We Lift our Hands

Yesterday was our Spring Worship Event/ Concert/ Audience Participation Driven/ Congregational Praise Thingy at church.  Instead of a spring concert, the choir sang/ led worship for the entire service.  It rocked.  Yes, I think God can totally rock.

I love it that if I allow it to, a song can mean, to me, what it did when I first experienced it.  The prayer set to music doesn't have to get lost in the melody.  Some songs take me back to those places of brokenness or despair and some take on an entirely new meaning, even though I may have been singing them for years.  This reminds me that I have grown. This always feels good. 

I love worshiping the only true God, the only one worth living for. (And yes, sometimes I do forget that.)  Yesterday, our church was full of totally free people.  Free- even though we had baggage and sin and messed up lives.  We worshiped.  People waved their arms in the air, jumped up and down- like a kid in a bounce house.  Some people sat. Some stood. Some cried, some were silent at times.  And God loved it.  

I wanted to bottle this sweet aroma and splash it on myself when I am home alone and feel like pouting and that no one cares.  I want to invite the dancer over to perform for me when I am acting like a brat and can't think of one good reason to try any more.  Her free flowing gestures and pulsing limbs, waving and bending, would remind me that I am beautiful and have something to give.  I wanted to hug the tiny, frail Spanish woman on the second row.  I wanted to invite the two busty soul sisters to come and sway and clap for me when my burnt lasagna, terrible haircut, and dying house plants are making me very angry.  

When I get (another) letter that begins "Thank you for your submission and interest in our publication, however..." I want my dear friend Sheppe to sing in my ear like she was from the row behind me.  The lower notes resonating from deep within her- somewhere warm and familiar, like the smell of home.  Or if I could just watch the pianist pound out those jazz chords, her feet tapping and shoulders shaking .... Gosh, I think I would feel a whole heck of alot better about the day ahead.

I looked around and saw love, I experienced life.  We were all unified, part of something larger than ourselves.  But better than hollering at a Yankees game or singing with 50,000 other Dave Matthew's fans, we were pouring out who we are for our King.  And it was beautiful.

There are lots of ways to worship.  Even through writing.