You’ll Love It

The moment I wondered about has come… That moment when I sit staring at a blank screen thinking, “I can’t write about that song again!” That moment when I’m faced with choosing something else, because there are always songs running in my brain, or being true to my mission here, and trusting The Lord to give me the words. With my tongue in my cheek I’m wondering if God is trying to tell me something, because I’m hearing the harps eternal again. Again.

Different line, on a loop… “Hallelujah, Praise the Lamb! Sing Glory!” I love that my spirit sings praise to The Lord even while I’m sleeping. And I don’t mind that it’s the same song, because didn’t my own kids do that with me? “Read it again, mom!” The same story, over and over. Same thing with a song… Singing it over and over. And I love that the musician in me is listening, not just hearing. I’m listening to all the vocal parts and the way it’s all put together, even in my head.

Mostly, I love the fact that one day God will call me to himself, and I will truly hear the harps and the angel songs and add my voice to the myriads singing praise to the Lamb and to the King. When it’s time. In His time, not mine. Which reminds me of an old worship chorus we used to sing…

in His time, in His time
He makes all things beautiful
In His time
Lord please show me everyday
As your teaching me your way
That you’ll do just what you say
In your time

Not sure I got all the words right there, but He does make all things beautiful in His time. Not mine. A little like a child waiting for Christmas… Anxious, worried, nervous, fretful… And all the while mom or dad have it all planned and prepared and they know it’s going to be wonderful and you’ll love it!

The featured image is my great-niece, Julia (left) and my granddaughter, Molly (right) waiting for Christmas. It’s gonna be awesome!!!!

Walk Worthy

I am the product of an oxymoron. I was raised in suburbia by country people. My parents were born and raised in western Kentucky, but we were born and raised (mostly) in suburban Detroit. We heard that slow southern drawl at home, but the short, quick, sharp northern accent at school and in the neighborhood. Our Kentucky cousins teased us mercilessly about it when we visited once or twice a year. A country raising in the city meant we had a little independence… Playing with our friends up and down the street, not beholden to a clock, not stuck in the house.

But we knew when it was time to come home. My dad would step out onto the little front porch stoop and whistle. Once. Didn’t matter where we were in the neighborhood, we could hear that whistle and knew we better take off running for home. If we didn’t hear it? Well, that meant we were someplace we weren’t supposed be and that was trouble of its own.

1 Thessalonians 2:12 says we are encouraged and charged to “walk in a manner worthy of God, who calls you into his own kingdom and glory.” Our God gives us independence and free will to walk with him on this planet, serving those he places in our lives. God calls us to himself. No, it’s not my daddy’s whistle but, as believers, we know his voice. And if we can’t hear it? Maybe we’re someplace spiritually or emotionally where we aren’t supposed to be.

My dad held me accountable for my actions. He made me feel safe and secure. He still does. I haven’t heard him whistle for a long time, but we have great conversations. Who holds us accountable now? Who in our lives charges me, so that my walk and my speech reflect Jesus? I don’t think I’ll ever get too old to need that person, that friend, that mentor who can steer me back onto the path.

I’m hearing the eternal harps again this morning in my head. I posted recently about this song, Hark I Hear the Harps Eternal. Click here to read Heaven!

The featured image is the house where I grew up in Michigan, taken last year on a visit. My dad built that garage. A few exceptions… the tree was a sycamore, the car was a Pontiac station wagon, the front window was a picture, not a bay, and that’s the porch where dad would stand and whistle for us. Calling us home.