Thinking on these things . . .

I'm singing in a Christmas concert today. That's not amazing news this time of year but it's given me pause and such a heart of gratitude. I had attended a couple nights ago and the music and lyrics are so worshipful I wanted to be able to join my voice with the forty others who are glorifying God through this. I asked if I could hop in this afternoon and was told "yes"; a step of faith on my colleague's part as he's unaware of my background. But I am not; and as I, with the benefit of Youtube, sing through my book I am overcome by all the ways God has prepared me for this. Years and years of choirs, some lessons, amazing choral colleagues in year's previous who have supported and stretched me vocally and one director in particular, Dr. Dwight Gustafson of the University Chorale, to whom I'll be forever grateful for his instruction both vocally and how to praise God with our voices.  I think about all the notes and all the opportunities

As I didn’t have a camera, let me write you a picture As I walked through an early morning of late November, the white ceramic mug of coffee cradled was cooling quickly; frosty puffs of breath preceding me. Every blade of grass was distinctly encased in its own coat of frost.  Before me lay a panorama of Geneva Lake, the pink hue of sunrise still lingering in the sky diffused by the steam rising out of warm waters into the frigid air.  The dog ran leaving no footprints across the frozen beach and the reflective glass of the water was filled with cliques of geese; squawking, diving, preening, making trails as they glided across the lake. They were incongruous against the backdrop of the lone white boat pier, all the slips long emptied, boards encrusted in a layer of icy snow.  I stood on the diving board in my winter coat and looked trepidatiously at the green clear  water below me.   It was definitely no longer summer. And the lyric came to mind; “My seasons change, You stay

It was o'dark thirty and I was shuffling down the hall with a severe case of "I can't believe the alarm went off already... do I really need to get up... I am so tired…" brain fog.   As I stumbled along I was tying on my robe. The plush fabric brushed against my skin and again, for the umpteenth time, I was amazed at its softness. The robe had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse buy after I'd run my hand over the open sample spot to feel the texture. I had no idea what I was in for. It's long and thick and unbelievably soft.  It is amazing, and I've come to that conclusion numerous times. All the prior experience and expectation do not prepare me for the sensation each time I am wrapped in it.  It is always greater than I imagine.  I find this true of the love of Jesus. No matter what I read about Jesus’ love, or hear it expressed musically, or remember it from my own history - however spectacular - it does not compare to the experience

"When peace like a river attendeth my way  When sorrow like sea billows roll  Whatever my lot,   Thou hast taught me to say  It is well, it is well with my soul." How long does that take?  How many lessons until one can say - "whatever their lot" - that it is well with their soul? Here is the value of a long obedience in the same direction.  Here is where a lifetime of faith stands to answer the question. How does one learn that the Lord is faithful? By going through many things one wishes to never have had happened. Who would chose hardship? pain? difficulty? disappointment? financial downturn, poor health, or stressful circumstances?   I'm not seeing many raised hands... But to get the point where we can stand in our churches and sing these words honestly...well, we have to go through those lessons. Through the experiences of our lives we find that our God is good and loving and gracious and faithful and strong and

Because of how the space time continuum works, it is impossible for us to truly go back and remember how we used to be now that we are who we are.  That being said, there are ways that give us a pretty good idea; our own memories, the memories of others, writings, and , the thing that never lies, pictures. A snapshot from the past is always an interesting thing is it not?  Nothing like seeing a picture and remembering that  once you were probably thinner, less wrinkled, had non-gray or more hair, and, to current eyes, a really bad sense of fashion! This weekend I was treated to some snapshots via music as I pulled out some CD’s (hey, at least they weren’t eight tracks!) from ten and twenty plus years ago.  The first was the oldest, a pop artist whose every lyric I identified with.  His sentiments were my own.  This was my music, my story.   It was like seeing myself with an 80’s perm… The music was angst-driven – ask my kids, I can no longer tolerate whiny music

I've been seeing #Sundayscoming a lot this season and I get it and I love it - yes, Easter Sunday is just around the corner - Alleluia, Amen, Christ will be risen from the grave! But today it's Saturday. Typically I miss Saturday.  I observe Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.  I leave sanctuaries sad and solemn, aware that the payment for my sin was causing Christ great pain. I exit awed and grateful. And then it's this morning and I watch the sun come up and plan my Easter menu and activities and do some baking and cleaning and generally have a regular day because I already know what's happening tomorrow.   And I miss it. I miss where we actually live; we live here in the "Now what? Saturday". Any loss, after the shock has lessened, brings this question.  Loss of ability, of a job, of a position, of possessions; after the incredulousness of  "I can't believe that just happened" comes the "now what?". The older I get the m