In The Garden

In-the-Garden-thumbnailLately I’ve been feeling bad for whoever sits next to me in corporate worship. I never used to. For years, I came to church and sat and stood at the appropriate times and even sang quietly with the rest of the congregation. Somewhere along the line though, it stopped becoming simply singing and became worship. I don’t know how it happened. Really, one day I was reading the words off the screen, keeping my volume to a very respectful whisper and my hands and emotions nicely contained. Then, the next thing I know, I’m standing in the front row, swaying to the music, eyes closed, arms up and “singing” like no one is watching. You see what I did there with the quotation marks? That’s because I can’t sing. This is not me practicing humility. This is me confessing. I can’t sing. At all. Which is why I suddenly feel rather sorry for the people close enough to hear me. This is also why I’m thankful for our more modern service with it’s music equipment that drowns out much of my noise. But, as my family will confirm, my concern for the ears around me hasn’t discouraged me much. Why? Because I was made to worship. I know, it may not SOUND like I was made to worship, but I was. You were too! I understand your confusion as this truth had once eluded me too. I’ll direct you to my first glimpse for a more detailed explanation but here’s a condensed version if you’re short on time.

There was once this fiesty, fire cracker of an old woman that used to walk barefoot through her acre large “garden”, her hair in militant rows of tiny curlers and her apron pulled up as a make shift basket. house-and-rowsBut it wasn’t her appearance that would puzzle me. She seemed to fit in that garden like she was born there. Her first toddling steps squishing dirt up in between her toes. Even at her advanced age she seemed to sway along with the stems as she threaded herself between the rows. And the fruit of her labor gathered in the folds of her apron seemed to bare witness to the fact she belonged there. What seemed to me to be at odds with the whole scene was her “singing”. It was how one could locate her among the produce. You certainly couldn’t miss it. In fact, I’d venture a bet that dogs on neighboring farms a couple miles down the road could lead you straight to her. It was less like singing and more like high pitched yelling. But as long as she was in that garden, she was singing her favorite hymns. When asked, it has been reported that she said, “If God didn’t want to hear me, He’d have made me mute.”. It’s taken me a few years but I’m finally starting to understand. That brilliant lady knew a thing or two about worship. She had figured out that it wasn’t the quality of the voice raised in praise, but the heart beneath it.

“There are some who cannot sing vocally, but perhaps, before God, they sing best. There are some, I know, who sing very harshly and inharmoniously – that is to say, to our ears. Yet God may accept them rather than the noise of stringed instruments carefully touched…When praise comes from the heart, who would wish to restrain it?”

Charles Spurgeon 

I don’t wish to restrain it. Not only because it pleases God but because I’ve found it’s as close to the garden as I can get here. (Now, I don’t have an actual garden. I may have inherited this sweet lady’s voice, but not her ability to make things green. Also not humility. It is a well known fact in my house that the only things I can keep alive have heart beats. Which really, I think should count for something??)

I play worship music in my van, in my kitchen, in my closet before prayer and as I “sing” the rest of the world kind of melts away. It’s just Him and I, walking through the garden. In the garden I’m free to rejoice in His presence, sing His praises and focus solely on Him. And in this place full of distractions, trials, pain and loss, I don’t want to waste a precious second of these opportunities to worship. My soul longs for His presence!

So here is my apology. Sorry, not sorry! And my best advice. Lift your voice and arms like you were made to worship (you were) and dance like no one is watching (or for an audience of One). Because, like a wise woman once said, if God didn’t want to hear you, He’d have made you mute.

Here, try it with this song. You’re welcome! 😊

Fighting For Balance

It was the sideways glance and raised eyebrow from the pre op nurse that got me thinking. I can’t really blame her for not understanding because prior to life with medically complex kiddos, I wouldn’t have understood either. That they have medical, spiritual and emotional needs and each are just as important to maintaining some kind of balance in this crazy life of genetic disorders.

So, as they wheeled our oldest son out the door into surgery and I was sitting with our daughter in the same pre op room getting ready for her surgery, I explained to the nurse why I brought my thirteen year old son to see his first concert the night before.

I told her Imagine Dragons is his favorite band and his amazing aunt got the tickets for him for his birthday. I explained that he was very concerned that he not miss the last of soccer season, or the beginning of basketball season so this gave us a very small window in which to schedule the eye surgery. (Because, well, thirteen year old boy priorities.) I tell her that this rare disorder of theirs, Cerebrotendinous Xanthomatosis, comes not only with juvenile bilateral cataracts, but with a lot of anxiety. So, I scheduled the surgery on the only date available in between sports and brought him to the concert the night before. He had a great time and, although tired that morning, he was much less stressed about the surgery.

As the blood pressure cuff inflated and the heart monitor beeped I colored with our daughter and explained that for her, Dad spent the night playing Minecraft to distract her. The decisions aren’t always easy ones to make. Trying to balance all of their needs is hard. They are more than just flesh and blood. In the midst of endless lab work, exams, specialists and testing it has become more and more important that we make all of their needs a priority. Sometimes this means ice cream before dinner rewards for copious amounts of blood work. Sometimes it means skipping homework for prayer, not following that strict diet perfectly so that they can eat what the other kids at the party are eating or taking the injury risk for that activity that they love.

We have two medically complex kiddos and this means we have complex lives with complex decisions. And we’re just doing the best we can to meet ALL of the needs.

And you know what? Much later that day, our son was out of surgery, out of PACU and sitting somewhat patiently with us while we were waiting for our daughter to crack open her precious little eyes and the PACU nurse comments on how easy going and patient our kids are. After 12 hours in the hospital neither one were complaining and both were good naturedly trading jokes with us and the staff.

So, we will keep fighting for balance. We know our kids and their condition better than anyone else we come across, no matter their degree. Tonight, one day post op, they’re going to youth group. Because they want to, and it’s just as important as the medication they’re due for in an hour.

I’m not saying we make all the right choices. I’m definitely not saying we’ve got this thing figured out. Actually, we really screw it up sometimes. But, what I’m saying is, I’ve learned that our kids’ needs are complex and go far beyond the physical. I’ve learned that not everyone is going to understand that. I’ve learned that sometimes I will get a sideways glance and raised eyebrow at my decisions. And I’ve learned that that is totally okay. Sometimes I’m right.