Worship
Worship was standing in the living room , singing hymns from red-covered hymnals. Picking out new tunes on the old organ, we tried to create harmonies with a handful of people who were more (or less) musically gifted. I memorized the words before I learned how to read them. Worship was a guitar and a djembe and unfamiliar choruses projected (with more or less accuracy) onto a screen. Sweaty, dirty, exhausted people sang their hearts out, hands lifted high. I kept my hands at my sides and wondered what I'd gotten myself into. Worship was the sunny spot in the woods where I was completely alone. Where, at last, God taught me that I could worship with my posture as well as my words. Inch by inch, my hands went up as I reached out to the Father with whom I was just becoming acquainted. Worship was singing into a microphone, in front of other people , and hearing God ask me to lift my hands and worship Him there. I closed my eyes to shut out the faces and, tremblingly, obeyed. ...