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.
