Life Without Music

Earlier this week I had coffee with a delightful woman whose family does not listen to much music. My understanding is that it's a sound issue where they can't handle the volume level. They went to a concert and had to leave because the sound stimulation was too much.

I tried to envision what my life would be like without music. I almost always have music playing. If it's not on, there's probably a song running through my head. Concerts are my family's bonding activity.

We've gone to the same multi-day Christian music festival for nine years. Our record is six Mark Schultz concerts in one calendar year. We sit around quoting "As Is" by Peder Eide as if "Samson was a long-haired, arrogant womanizer" is a perfectly logical thing to say in conversation.

If it weren't for music, we'd probably have to watch movies or take up karate like normal people.

When I talk about Lifest, I tell the silly stories: the standing ovation earned by a water bottle, the mud so bad our van had to be pushed into the parking lot, using my lawn chair as an umbrella, etc.

But I think about it, I think about worshipping with Phillips, Craig, and Dean as the rain gently fell on my face. I think about kneeling on fist-sized gravel to stretch my arms up to my Abba Father like a child wanting to be held. I remember Peter Furler (when he was in Newsboys) talking about God's perfect timing only to have a nearby train interrupt his sentence.

Can I worship without music?

I love how the Lord gets my attention through songs I've heard a million times. I get a taste of heaven when strangers unite as a family to sing praises to our Father. I didn't perform "My Savior, My God" in ASL in front of a crowded room of Nicaraguan believers; I worshipped my Savior, my God with my hands.

Through music may be one of my favorite ways to worship, but it's certainly not the only way.

To affirm or encourage someone, that's worship. To serve and love on someone, that's worship. To hug someone, to squeeze a shoulder as you pass, to look someone in the eye. Worship. To genuinely ask how someone's doing, to sit down and share life over a cup of coffee, to bring lunch to an under-employed freelance writer. Worship. To dance, to play ping pong, to sign, to make copies, etc. they can all be worship. (My thoughts on this have been heavily influenced by TASTE Worship--check it out).

In Guatemala, there was a day I was "forbidden" to sing and sign. I worshipped that day. I removed flecks of orange paint from a brush and bucket, and it was worshipful.

Can I worship with music?

Last summer, I remember running through the park arguing with God about being twenty minutes late to a forty-minute show. He brought to my attention that I was not approaching the concert with the right heart.

It wasn't the first time.

How often do I attend a concert just to add another artist to my repertoire? How often do I absent-mindedly sing along without realizing what I'm saying?

These questions hurt because I am ashamed of their answers.

Even at Christian concerts, my heart is not always in the right place. I've sung along, I've waved my arms, I've screamed at the top of my lungs, and I hate to confess it has not always been for the Lord.

It happens under a rain-free sky. It happens in a crowded, dark auditorium. It happens in my church on Sunday mornings. It happens to me more often than I care to admit.

I voluntarily took a day this week and turned the music off. I washed dishes in silence. I drove across town in the quiet. I worked without any accompaniment.

It was weird and awkward at first but then it became peaceful.

That's worship.

Weird and awkward at first. Uncomfortable and strange. But then peaceful, wonderful, and necessary.

Whether you're a person who loves to literally feel the beat of the drums or just prefers white noise in the background, take some time this week to worship with the radio off.

Let me know how it works for you.

<>< Katie

Just a Minute

I was rummaging through my purse for a donation in exchange for my bowl of grapes and half bagel at my Baptist church's breakfast bar.  They let us (encourage us even) eat during the service.

I looked up and saw a little brown-haired boy on the other side of the table helping himself to the donut holes.

When I called his name, he looked up. He lit up.

Then he hesitated, embarrassed by the sparkle in his eye as he tried to restrain himself from leaping over the table and attaching himself to me.

Instead I invited him to come hug me. (I would have begged, but I knew it wasn't necessary). We both abandoned our breakfasts; I knelt as he rocketed around the table. He wrapped his arms around my neck, and I scooped him into my arms. Neither of us said a word. Neither of us wanted to let go. I was pretty sure I was going to have a seven-year-old-sized growth on my side for the rest of the service.

Life is made up of moments just like this. Compassion's president Wess Stafford wrote a book about how it takes just a minute to change the life of a child.

How often do we turn to children begging for our attention and say, "Just a minute" as we try to finish up whatever project is, in that moment, more important than the child?

What if you tried something different.  Instead of "just a minute"-ing, you took just a minute to invest in a child. It makes a difference in his or her life, and I'd be willing to bet it makes a difference in yours, too.

Just a minute. It matters.

I don't get to spend a lot of time with children. I cherish the minutes I get to be trampled by fifty children trying to hug me simultaneously, be the human jungle gym, or be a galloping horsey.

What a precious gift for both parties involved. (The bruises are definitely worth it).

As adults, we have so much to give children. At the same time, we have so much to learn. It takes just a minute. But it makes a difference that last long beyond a sixty-second hug.

Learning to embrace the little moments with little people,
<>< Katie

Returning Home

I didn't do it intentionally. Honest!

Things like Christmas, family vacation, pre-planned blogposts, and a sore arm had gotten in the way. All of the sudden it had been... well, way too long.

It hadn't felt like it had been a long time otherwise I would have taken care of it long before I flopped down on a king size log bed with a purple pen and my Writer's Notebook.

Yup, I was rusty. It hurt. And I silently cursed myself for smacking my forearm on whatever I was clumsy enough to crash into.

But I loved it.

It felt so good to be back, to be doing something I loved. It was a deep breath of rich air. It was calming and refreshing.

I pushed through the pain of the pen's movement across the page. I slowly shook the dust from the dictionary stored in my corner of my brain. I smiled as I saw the influence of other writers and as the piece took a different direction than I anticipated.

It was good. It was home.

Home is watching my fingers bleed purple ink.

Home is the opening chords of a familiar song.

Home is digging into the Word when you've gotten busy, lazy, and unintentional.

Home is freedom and fresh air. Comfort, love, and uncontainable joy.

Home is sleeping between your own sheets after a long vacation. Home is hugs waiting for you at the door and milk in the fridge.

While the physical location of home is changing once again, the emotional feeling of home follows me wherever I go.

For this I am grateful.

I am also grateful for grace. For hobbies, no, for ways of life, that return after having been abandoned.

<>< Katie

Being Used

"I'm tired," I said, resting my head on Neal's shoulder.  It was lunchtime on our third day in Nicaragua and we'd already done three church services, visited three schools, and been performed for twice. 

He put his arm around me in a side hug.  There we stood in silence for a few minutes.  I never said this but I was more than tired; I was discouraged.

The previous night we had done a worship service at a youth-filled home church in the city.  It was in the upper room of this little house where our team of 26 took up most of the incredibly uncomfortable seats.  The youth from this church sat scattered among us, crouched on the floor in the back, or stood squished in the corner.

They started out the worship service with some songs, prayer, a dance, and a short message.  Then we did some of the same things: three songs, a skit (the only service we didn't do The Heart Skit), a prayer, a sign performance, a testimony, and a sermon.  By the end of the service, most of our team was in tears, in awe of how alive the Spirit of the Lord was in that church.

This is an excerpt from my journal that night:

God, I'm a little jealous that everyone else had such wonderful experiences tonight. I know You are alive and here in Nicaragua but I didn't feel it the way everyone else did. I know that You speak to everyone in different ways but it seemed like You spoke to everyone in the same way tonight... except me.

My eyes were dry.  I felt nothing.  I was annoyed with God for not allowing me to feel the same thing as everyone else.  I was jealous, and I hadn't told anyone but God.

My head still resting on his chest, Neal rubbed my arm with his hand.

"God's using you, you know," he said.

As silly as this sounds, I was surprised to hear that.  I knew that God would use me but I did not know He is using me.  Present tense.  Not some abstract future occurrence but right now.

Neal continued, "A lot of people said when you signed 'My Savior, My God' last night was when the Holy Spirit started to work on them."

What?

I had no idea.  I figured God had started speaking when they danced, when we sang in two languages, when the father and son did a duet, when we prayed... sometime long before I took the stage.

Apparently not.  The Holy Spirit used me and I had no idea.  While I still would have liked to enjoy the overwhelming experience like the rest of my teammates, I was stunned and amazed to learn that I had been used and I had no idea.

I think I thanked Neal for telling me exactly what I needed to hear.

The version of "My Savior, My God" I signed was written to be a trio.  I signed it by myself.  A Trio, a Holy Trio, perfromed it.

Sometimes the Holy Spirit uses you and you know it.  You feel it.  But sometimes the Holy Spirit uses you and you have no idea.  You don't feel it.

Are you ok with both?

I am.

<>< Katie

"Everyone Needs Compassion"

"Daddy, what were your five compassionate things you did today?"  I asked.  Dad was getting ready for bed, and I was sprawled out on his bed with a book.  I wasn't moving until I got an answer.

Dad: Helping people get on the elevator.
Katie: Did you really help people on the elevator today or are you making that up?
Dad: Actually, I helped THREE people onto the elevator today, so that's three things.
Katie: No, "Helping three people on the elevator" is one thing.  What are the other four?
Dad: Um... calling Grandma and Grandpa.  Calling Laura.  Um... Four... Kissing in public.
He walked over to Mom, gave her a hug and a kiss, and smirked at me.  Then he came over and gave me a kiss.
Dad: Five!  Now get off my bed.

I called him lame, but I did move.  He asked my five compassionate things for the day, and I gave an equally lame list.

Compassion: a deep awareness for others' hurting and acting upon those sympathies.

I'm pretty sure kissing doesn't count.

Compassion is risking your arm in an elevator door to ensure someone in a wheel chair has ample time to get on board.  Compassion is letting someone cut you in line because she has a screaming child who needs a nap.  Compassion is smiling at the waiter even when he brought you the wrong kind of wine.

Everyone needs compassion.  Did you hear me?  Everyone needs compassion.  Not just those you think are deserving of it.  Not just those who cross your path when you're in a good mood.  Everyone.

It's hard.  Very hard.  But let's work on it together.

So, friends, I ask you the same thing, what were your five compassionate things for today?  How did you show or receive compassion today?

<>< Katie

"Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." Ephesians 4:32

Rainy Days

Yesterday morning I passed my FOCUS brother Jordan on his way to breakfast.

"Hey, how are you?" I asked giving him a hug. I knew the answer before he spoke.

"Not good. It's raining. I HATE the rain. Absolutely hate it more than anything else in the world. It's going to be a bad day," he explained. As someone whose mood is often dictated by the weather, I understood. Rainy days are often miserable but "hate" is a strong word.

"Do me a favor, try to find one thing good in today. Yeah, it's rainy and gross, but God still made today and therefore there must be one thing good in it," I coached. He kind of groaned, and we went our separate ways.

I don't see Jordan very often and was surprised when I saw him again at dinner. I asked him about his good thing for the day.

"I got a good grade on a test," he said proudly.

In the next few minutes we made a list of good things:
1. Good grade
2. He's alive and breathing
3. It's Friday
4. We saw each other twice

Not bad for someone who hates the rain more than anything! Sure, they're all pretty basic but they're still reasons to smile on a no good, very bad rainy day.

This morning, I saw him again and asked how he was doing.

"Today is much better. It's not raining today. My feet are dry!" His girlfriend and I teased him about getting some rainboats. Yeah, that idea didn't fly. Maybe dry feet was his good thing for today.

I think we all have days like Jordan where we know before breakfast that it's going to be a bad day. Rain, headaches, heavy backpacks, and nasty caf food make my days bad. Smiles and hugs from friends, cancelled classes, and blog comments make my days better.

I'd challenge you to do the same thing I often encourage myself to do and I suggested Jordan do: find one thing good in today. Even as simple and being grateful that you got out of bed this morning.

"This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it" - Psalm 118:24 (emphasis mine)

<>< Katie