Sunday, April 12, 2009

Today


It's supposed to rain today -- my first thought upon realizing that I survived the night (it's not guaranteed, you know). So what does one wear on one of the most celebrated days (by believers and non-believers alike) of the year -- when ideally the sun should be shining brightly and the temperature in the mid 70s?? Does one insist on tradition? A pastel dress? A light-colored suit? A spring hat? And what about the hair??? And those cute little open-toe slingbacks? Or strappy sandals? Some folks think of these things at least the night before. Not this "folk."


Dear old practical me. I got out of bed, plodded down that 20-foot path for the basic grooming routine. "Forget the hair," I said to myself. "It's going to rain and even as short as you've had it cut, it will fall anyway." "Okay," I agreed without argument. Dear old practical me. While chewing 1000 milligrams of Vitamin C, I choose a pair of tan trousers, a shirt of similar color, some brown pumps and a navy jacket. In lieu of the fancy beaded eyeglass holder I made the night before using tiger eye beads, freshwater pearls and some gold accents, I pulled out the plain gold corded eyeglass holder and popped a pearl stud in each ear.


Downstairs I popped my morning supplements -- niacin, potassium and B complex, washing them down with a glass of juice that's supposedly chocked full of antioxidants (can we get enough of those?).


I felt really blah; imps had grabbed ahold of my ankles and calves, and were pulling me down to the bowels of the darkest pit imaginable, and despite my weight (though 22 pounds lighter, still quite hefty), the little devils were winning the tug-of-war. But it's Resurrection Day (okay -- "Easter" for most folks) -- and what am I supposed to do if not go to worship? Somehow I shake loose of the imps, but not the blahs. After all, I made a commitment, and I will stick to it.


At the door leading to the garage I pick up the stuff I'm supposed to take with me (yep -- I lean stuff against the door that I don't want to forget) and step into the dark garage, pushing the huge square that activates the door. As the garage door lifts, I'm still standing in the dark. The sun decided to take the morning off. It is more than overcast; daylight was skipped in favor of dusk. After loading up the Jeep and coasting down the driveway, I hit the street, circling around to the next driveway and back to make sure I lowered the garage door, then headed out again. As I entered the tollway the tears came, and fell like rain through my entrance to the freeway and exit to the South Main campus several miles later. I didn't bother to ask myself why I was crying. It could have been the headache from the atmospheric pressure, or the heartache and exhaustion of my current life-changing struggle. I won't try to figure it out; what I do know is the tears I shed were not tears of joy.


After parking the Jeep near the educational building and my stuff in my Sunday School classroom, I proceeded to the elevator in the Loessner building. Stepping out of the elevator on the second floor, I was slapped in the face by the fragrance of the flowers, even though they were nowhere in sight. The tears were gone, but there arose a concern that the Zyrtec, taken the night before, would not hold up against the flowers.


Walking down the hall of the Loessner building, I passed Nina and another woman whose face I knew, but not her name. She began to match my step, and spoke favorably of my vocal contribution to Wednesday's noonday service, adding that she couldn't sing, to which I replied "we can all sing." Contradicting me, she replied "I can't carry a tune," to which I replied "oh, yes, we all carry a tune, and the only one that's really important to God is the one in our hearts." "Well, when you put it like that," she said . . .


Arriving in the music suite, I checked myself in and went to the women's robing room where I shed my blazer for #55 -- my robe and stole -- and took my place as others streamed in. After a warmup and review, I filed out and retraced my steps down the 2nd floor hall in the Loessner building, crossing over to the foyer of the Sanctuary where on cue, we filed down the middle isles of the Sanctuary and started to sing PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE THE LORD, PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, ALLELUIA. PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, ALLELUIA, PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, ALLELUIA. My right hand -- the empty one -- began slapping my thigh on the 2nd and 4th beats. A little voice (probably one of those imps) told me to stop, but I couldn't. The song is simple, but infectious. By the time I reached my seat in the choir loft, I dropped my folder containing the very serious Jubilate Deo (a Psalm to be sung in Latin, no less), and Worthy is the Lamb and Hallelujah (from Handel's Messiah), and was clapping my hands with a side-to-side rock on PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE THE LORD. The neighboring Alto joined in, as did others. And suddenly, and too soon, we sang the last ALLELULIA. "I really need just one more round of that", I thought, but that's not my call. :(


The worship service progressed with heartfelt hymns and choral works accompanied by our prodigy-organist, brass ensemble, and an out-of-town guest producing the sweetest violin strains that could be heard over everything else. Then Steve delivered a way awesome message, followed by HALLELUJAH -- FOR THE LORD GOD OMNIPOTENT REIGNETH -- AND HE SHALL REIGN FOREVER AND EVER -- HALLELUJAH!!! And then it was done.


Off to Sunday School. The tears were not only gone, but forgotten. A wonderful close to a study of the book of Nehemiah. Nehe---who??? (Yep, I later admitted to half of the teaching team in the ladies robing room that I really wasnt gung-ho about the subject matter, but learned a lot of not only historical stuff, but practical applications as well.)


We are now ready for the 11:00 worship service -- slightly different from 8:30. As we process again, the urge to keep time with the singing overtakes me again, and Right Hand (capped because it seems to have taken a personality and mind of its own) starts slapping my thigh as we proceed to the choir loft. The Room is packed -- even the balcony. The cameras are on and we are webcasting. Still, I succumb to the urge to PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE THE LORD. Many of us do. As the choir sits, Pastor Steve begins a baptism. Another difference in this worship service is the children's message, which, for those of us who will admit it, adults often find not only funny and entertaining, but substantially thought-provoking -- as it was this morning.


Fast-forward to the end of worship. As we sang HALLELUJAH from Handel's Messiah, the three pairs of doors from the foyer to the Sanctuary are flung open, then the doors from the foyer to the outside. As we stand there singing HALLELUJAH I am staring all the way outside. Rain is pouring down so hard that I cannot distinguish between it and the water from the large fountain in front of the Sanctuary building. And even though it is pouring rain, and I cannot see the sun, I feel the warmth and love of the Son whose ressurection we celebrate. Without that Son we all live in darkness. Without Him the tears would never stop. Without Him life is not worth living. Today my prayer is for all to know the Son.