But when I stepped up to the microphone, I
heard it
It was the voices of the brothers by my side
They were singing out my songs when the song
in me had died
- Andrew Peterson, Shine Your Light On Me
O Lord, open my lips,
and my mouth with declare Your praise.
Psalm 51:15
Sometimes I
sing.
Sometimes I
sing for others.
Sometimes I
need others to sing for me.
My family
and I walked into church, late, just as the worship band was finishing the
first congregational song. We found open seats near the back of the sanctuary,
slipping into them like stealth agents during the opening prayer.
Looking past
the crowd to the stage, I was happy to see that a good friend of mine was sitting
behind the drum kit. The Sundays when he plays always have an added bonus for me. I enjoy his drumming because I know his heart – I know why he is there on stage. Drums
are his voice. The rhythm is his praise to God. And as he and the other band
members worship, the rest of us are drawn in to join their song. There is one drum beat,
one heartbeat of a community in common.
After the
prayer, the band played another song. I looked up to the screen for the lyrics,
but I continued to listen to the drums. I marked the skill, and I delighted in
the excellence of the music we were making together, echoes of the offering our
hearts were lifting to God. Yet even as I became aware of the beauty of such a
moment, I also could not help but notice that my heart was largely unaffected
by it all. My singing was stale, unmoved; I had not yet noticed the boys standing two rows in front of us.
