Tell a fish not to swim. Tell the waves not to rush the shore. Tell the trees not to change to brilliant orange after a summer of saving up. Tell the birds not to fly. But tell me not to sing... really? Really? There was something about a cyst and a time of rest and absolutely no singing.
It feels like part of me is shriviling up. I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to stand in a room and experience His presence and not sing. I don't know how to celebrate, or cry, or dance, or ride in my car, or cook dinner, or cut the grass without singing. I don't know how the song in my heart, the melody in my mind, the bridge that makes me dance and throw out my arms will radiate through my body without coming out as a song.
You are teaching me that it's not about me - or my song - and that you'll continue to be worshipped whether I ever utter another sound.
You are making it clear that life goes on without me and allows others to share what they have to offer.
You are driving home that worship is in my heart... it's not music. It's my life and how I live it.
In these days, I'm singing, I'm just not making any noise. Lord, help me to make this the most beautiful song I've ever sung - in the quiet... in the silence - may this song bless your heart.
There are those days when you look out over the course of the day and you sigh and think, "that was a good day". Then there are others when you look out and you see the mess and you feel the weight and you can hear all the words gone unsaid and you just want to crawl under the covers and eat chocolate. When the Legos pile high and the laundry begins to have a mind of its own and the phone is incessant and then the child shouts out for 'mommy' for the 800th time. It's when my blood runs hot and I leave small people, flesh of my flesh, in my wake as the words boil over and out and scald them to the quick. I see the tremble in the chin, the flash of blue in the eyes that let me know, I've overstepped. Gentleness has not been my companion. Instead, I now, along with the Legos and laundry that remain, have added regret to the list of things to clean up. Tonight was one of those messy nights, when the hurry haunts me after the hurried-along-ones have gone to bed.
How quickly I forget the River. It's His words that bring me Life. It's His unending well that springs up in me and gives me a hope, future and the will to go on. It's His refreshing waters that cause me to start over and cleanse my heart.
The sunset was spectacular tonight and upon seeing it, the smallest said, "Let's go to the river to see it better." And we did - we ran - so as not to miss a minute, and we could see it better. And I did see it better: I need to run to the river often... yes, to the Wando, the brackish black that is winding it's way into my soul, but also to the one who made it, whose life-blood is in my veins and who becons me to His side. If I will go to Him - I always see it better.
River Redeemer - remind me to run to you - and often. Help me to take my children with me to the River, instead of to the reaming, so we can soak in all you have for us - no regrets, no haste, but a calming sense that you are with us and want us all to see You better.
"Arriving" can feel like a struggle. We will never be complete this side of Eternity, and we know that the glory to come far outweighs the trouble seen here, but the journey sometimes feels like an endless climb.
When we moved, we brought our beloved plumeria with us. It's been the topic of many a ransacked post because in it's simplicity, the Lord speaks to me through it... perhaps he knows how deeply I love it, tend to it, and so will be tender to listen while I'm there. He's personal like that.
We brought it to our new yard, my husband dug an enormous hole, moved earth to make it a home, and now it sits outside my screened porch. For the first few days I wasn't convinced it would make it. Leaves drooped. Yellow overtook the glossy green. Flowers - the beloved crown of the prize - browned and fell. I held my breath.
Days went by - and then the rains fell. And then it rained. Did I mention it rained? Nearly 4 1/2 inches in a week. The soaking worked. The plumeria righted and now stands, in all her glory, by the back door.
Fast forward 29 days. We've been in our house 29 days. The horticulture of my heart looks better, is stronger and blooming more wildly than ever before. Ever. As in... ever.
Something happens in our hearts when we realize we are finally home. When we realize the struggle is over, the soaking - although beneficial - has ended and we are released to be all that we have the freedom to be when we are home. Things bloom in us. Things strengthen in us. We thrive.
Although I still hold my breath for the Everlasting version, I'm home for now. The struggle I felt for so long over the opportunities for my family, our neighborhood and community, is over. We came here soaked to the bone. The drenching of life, pouring off every strand of hair, pressing it flat against our faces. But it worked. My heart is blooming here in this new place and I'm ready to flourish in all that the Lord has for me as I make his house our home. C'mon in, Lord... fill it up, I know it will be better than ever. We are home.
Tara is Greg's girl, mom to two sons of thunder, a hunger fighter, big dreamer and worship pastor at seacoast church.