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God moves in mysterious ways as you well know. Circumstances what they were, there were a couple people on the fringes of my life that wanted to lead me spiritually, but bound by their professions they could not do much about it. One day in the grocery store, my chiropractor nailed me in the milk aisle. She had been going to call me, as there was women’s day retreat at her church that she thought would benefit me. Never mind that I had not darkened a door of a church for decades, spending one of my days off with a bunch of women was not high on my list, so I politely told her that I would consider it.
With much hesitation, I went. You know the drill, a speaker, a lunch, a moderator with an agenda and a musical group. Knowing only a handful of the women, I sat at a table with complete strangers. Not as much small talk is what I was hoping for and it turned out ok. They were polite yes, but did not fire off the typical twenty-plus questions. Yes, the speaker hits some nerves; I was the one with tears running down my face, choking back sobs into my napkin, thinking it was a good thing that I did not know these women and that they did not know me.
Thankful for the distraction of the musical group, I gained control over my emotions just in time to be hit again by four voices who were singing about loving Jesus while bouncing around the stage. They called themselves 4 His Glory. Something was wrong. It just was not right to be bobbing my neck while clapping to Jesus music that moved me in my soul. For forty some years of my life I had been missing out. I had had no idea that I could enjoy and rock out to Jesus music. Not only that, but I was one of the few women that were worshipping in this way. I did not understand at the time that this was indeed a form of worship. When the event was over, I quickly gathered my things; I did not want consolation from curious women who were concerned over my rollercoaster display of emotions. It was April and a bit chilly, so while I waited for the car to warm up a bit, I started searching my radio dial for something, anything that sounded like what I had just discovered to.
It was not a gradual change; I jumped in with both feet. Christian music had never meant anything to me other than hymns sung at church or around the campfire at church camp when I was a kid. I had been up-to-date with some of the classics, like Eric Clapton, just his new stuff. Alternative rock was king; forget the 60’s and Elvis and give me grunge, blues, or the tunes that were not on the pop charts. I did not go for the urban hip-hop or rap, but Sheryl Crow or Counting Crows were what was happening for me. This music had been a common thread with my teenage stepsons.
After listening to the radio for some months, I got some copies of CDs from a friend. I could now listen at home, not just the car. I spent months enjoying the beat of the music and the feeling the artists poured into their craft. I was singing words, words that someone had written. Then I attended my first Bible study and started going to church. At the end of December, the church was giving away copies of the New Testament in a Year. I was now reading words, words that someone had written. With a shock and realization, the light bulb finally went came on. The words I was singing were God’s words. I am thrilled each time when I can pick out the words, he breathed into his chosen author so many years ago.
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