"I just like this song so much," Lucy says. Blue jeans, worn baggy at the knees, a black T-shirt and ponytail, she's at the piano. She strokes the keys, soft, like a newborn's face.
"Yeah?" I say.
"I don't really know why," she says. The why elongates as she matches her hands to the song's position.
"Well," I say, "it's more powerful than regular words because it's TRUTH and worship."
"Huh," she says. "Yeah." She changes from the smooth caress to confident stride. Melody effuses from the sound board. A couple of days and she's unfurled the full right hand part.
"What's the name of that one again?" I say.
"Rejoice, the Lord is King," she says. "I didn't really think about what is actually happening when you play until a couple of days ago," she says.
"What do you mean?" I say.
"Like that you are actually worshipping," she says.
"Oh," I say. "Yeah." Actually worshipping. A simple bowing down. I watch her there at the piano. She bows like a tree, a gentle swaying in submission to the breeze.
Gratitude:
6156. Jane and I spend the afternoon making three gallons of taco soup and watching Bible commentary.
6157. Betsy climbs in the chair behind me and leans on my back.
6158. Jack gets up early and cleans the whole house before I get up.
6159. Lucy learns a new hymn on the piano.
6160. I finish putting all the snaps on the newborn diapers.
6161. I find a sticky note with a flower crumpled in the garbage. "What's this?" I ask Joe. "That's the one that didn't turn out." Before bed I find a flowered sticky note next to the bathroom sink. The sky is filled with the word MOM.
6162. Myra falls asleep on the couch snuggled under Craig's arm.
6163. Jack unearths a stump stubbornly wedged at the new greenhouse site.
6164. I finish knitting an afghan started two years ago.
6165. "You can always tell that if you are having a hard time reading what you wrote," Lucy says, "you probably spelled it wrong."
6166. I meet with a friend and we talk all things birth. The next three weeks seem short. Short, short.
6167. I begin to unravel the strange mystery of trusting God. Trust. It's the raft we ride.
6168. Jack and Lucy haul another stump put front.
6169. Craig wraps our world in affection and confidence. We gladly lean on his shoulders.
Figuring out worship. Figuring out what it is to trust God, The former is like discovering that plants actually bloom. The second is what that plant does to get that bloom.... It does nothing but trust. Absolute surrender to the Father does not create slothfulness, it creates undying loyalty.
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