The Song

I motioned the “swiffer duster” one more time on my three guitars hanging on the wall. Grabbing the oldest gift from my husband, the Fender guitar still excited me as I stroke the six strings and still produced a harmonious tune.

I brought out some easy chords I had saved in my cell phone and my heart was feeling blue. Sad that I had not sang as often as I did when I was learning more about God’s love and grace. As I sang to Him, it took me back in front of perhaps, almost fifty people gathered that Sunday morning to listen to what I had to say. To listen to what I would sing, as their pastor, who was close to my father, had invited me to speak in a blossoming church in that particular small town. As a token of gratitude, despite protesting at first and making him aware I couldn’t sing and could only play easy guitar chords as I learned them on my own, I quietly accepted. I knew I had to speak and give my gratitude to all the members, who, weeks before my short visit, had all prayed by faith for my ill father. Few days before I planned on that visit, my father was able to get out of bed and stayed strong the whole time I was there with him, despite the many trips he endured to a local hospital. I remembered how I prayed and asked God to be there with me and lead me, as I tried to shun away the “fear of speaking, most of all, to sing” in front of those people.

All eyes were glued. I thanked them and reminded them, that I knew…it wasn’t only my father who suffered. I knew each of us carried a storm in our hearts, though varying in degrees or intensities. But they must not forget God’s goodness and faithfulness. All they had to do…was to look at my dad, bed ridden and then, was a walking testimony to what prayers could do if offered with faith and boldly approaching God’s throne of grace. Pairs of hands clapped and mouths shouted with cheers toward heaven.

I reached for the church’s guitar. Adjusting its strange weight on my lap, I tried to get accustomed to the tune of each string. Deep inside, my heart was on a calm rhythm, knowing for sure that those kind eyes would not judge my voice. I went for it (by the grace of God) and sang a particular song I had composed during those times my father was very sick yet God showed His faithfulness to our family. The four corners of the tiny, humble church echoed with my worship song. But I couldn’t finish toward the end of the song, my voice started to falter and my heart was drowning with so much gratitude. I felt Someone was listening at the back that I wasn’t able to see. But I felt His unfathomable love. I apologized, with tears formed on the corners of my eyes, as I thanked all of them. I thought they might gasp with despair but a deafening applause was their answer.

“Dad!” I whispered as I went back to my spot on the pew, next to my father.

“Did you like the song?” Expecting a “Yes” answer from an always supportive father, I was surprised to hear a soft “No!” “Why?” I asked. “Oh, it’s not that I don’t like it. I just couldn’t hear you from where I was.” Seeing his eyes got filled with tears also, he continued… “But I knew it was your heart singing and it was so beautiful.” I hugged him and he gave me one right back as we both straightened ourselves and listened to what the pastor was saying.

That memory remained fresh each time. It wasn’t about my song that touched those people. Each of us that moment was the Song. Songs written out of His love.

Like my guitars, Lord, use me as Your instrument daily. To have a heart with a song that people will hear and know that it comes from You. Thank You God for Your unfailing love.