She sat still and sang loud, the little
girl in Sunday School. The tune had a strong, easy flow. The kind of
song that makes you feel like you're getting something done even
sitting still. A tune that makes you smile from your toes up, and has
a strength that lifts heaviness up and off weighed down shoulders...
weighed down minds...weighed down hearts.
The teacher smiled as the children
sang; singing in that uninhibited childhood abandon that doesn't
worry what others might think or who might be critically watching the
free flow of LIFE.
We grown ups worry though don't we?
Some do.
We hold ourselves carefully, move not
too much, clap when others clap, sit when others sit. We don't want
to “distract” those around us, we wouldn't dare want our LOVE
FLOW towards the Lover of our Soul to “embarrass” anyone watching
us. Once a friend who was dear to my heart failed to hide her
critical eyes towards my arms-wide-open worship of the Savior. It
embarrassed her, and her husband too. It drew too much attention.
Only took a few Sundays until the seats
beside us were no longer filled by them.
It was a grievous thing to my heart,
but then, so like God, those seats were filled by souls who wanted to
know more about this One we loved so deeply. They wanted more of Him,
they needed more of Him. And the criticism of one was replaced as the
goodness of the Cross came near for another.
Too many of us grownups are too careful
when we let LOVE FLOW through us.
Oh but not a child...
Sparks grow into flames as air passes
over them.
A spark never grows larger, if air
doesn't rush over it.
Blacksmiths can only forge metal on
super heated flames. The horseshoe will never take good shape, the
blade will never hold a good edge, and the temper will not set in the
metal, unless the fire heats them deeply and the hammer lays them
well. Air in lungs used sparingly lends no strength to whatever comes
from them. Just as flames unfed by air will never give strength to
the fire's forging ability.
My great grandfather was the town
Blacksmith many by-gone years ago in the county where i grew up. His
daily work involved fire and metal, air and water. I'm told he was a
gregarious man who loved life, loved the Lord, and loved to work. He
knew the importance of billows filled with air pressing strength into
flames. From my Daddy's stories of him, it's most likely he also knew
the importance of lungs filled deeply with that same strengthening
air flow when lifting up his voice to the One who gave him both lung
and air. It's just a strong guess, but it's safe to say those sitting
near Pastor Porter on Sunday mornings knew how much he loved his Lord
when he opened his mouth. In my mind i can imagine those walking past
his blacksmith shop might had heard it through the week as well. Air
from the billows heating the fire for the metal; air from his lungs
pressing out worship while he hammered the metal into submission. I
don't know this is true, but I'm allowed to indulge in the hope of
it.
It's an odd sort of thing to ponder
when singing to the Lord. Who thinks of billows in the long-lost days
of Blacksmith shops when they're filling their lungs for another
pressing out of love?
The little girl does. The one
encouraged to sing it loud by the Sunday School teacher who smiled at
the strength of the love flowing in the tiny block wall room in the
basement of the little country church. And that little girl grew into
a woman who navigated past the awkward teenage years of wondering who
she was and why worship meant so much. She grew into a woman who came
to realize worship is for the One being worshiped; worship is for
Him alone. That woman knew the ONE she worshiped would carry her
children from birth to death and hold them in all the hills and
valleys in between their beginning and end. She knew the One to whom
she let the air flow strong from her lungs and plink words of praise
off her vibrating soul, was the Savior, the same One who had given
all, so she could have all ---- all that was worth having, all that
mattered. She was the trembling lady who knew her need, and found her
peace when she closed her eyes and let the air flow strong against
the soul-sparks the world had tried to doused again. And the rush of
worship-air rose up to the air-Maker, and the flames were fanned and
strengthened for another surge of life's forging.
What my much-loved-friend was missing
was the simple, solid fact ------- worship is for Him. How it sounds,
how it looks, what it says, how sincerely it's given ----- it's all
only for Him. To pause long enough to even consider the others who
are present, is allowing something else to be worshiped in His place.
What? Seriously?
Yes.
It's a soul-serious-thing.
When we think of what others might
think, and we hold the free-flow of LOVE back, then we are
worshiping the opinion of others more than the One who is jealous
for our praise. Or it could be that we are worshiping ourselves and
how we look or sound rather than
the One who truly did hang on a cross
after having the flesh peeled off him
never pausing in those painful moments
to consider
how He looked or sounded.
What others thought of Him did not
matter.
We get tricked into thinking it matters
what we look like. What others will think, what others might whisper
about us behind our backs.
And it's a lie.
What others think is only reflective of
their soul.
What others say are words heard most
loudly by the One who loves us.
And HE will defend us if we need to be
defended.
But what our Savior thinks, what our
Savior says, has the ring of eternity to it.
The faithful Sunday School teacher with
her 60's stylish attire and her cat-eye fashionable glasses led the
little warriors in tiny wooden chairs as they sang a tune first sung
by slaves in fields crying out to be remembered by the Lord. The song
was easy to remember, the words flowed just right:
“Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do remember
me,
Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do remember me,
Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do remember me,
Look a way, beyond, the blue.”
It rolled into verses like:
I've got a home in Glory land that
outshines the sun...
I took Jesus as my Savior you take Him
to...
and even, Mine eyes have seen the glory
of the coming of the Lord...
(the lady who wrote Do Lord, also wrote
the Battle Hymn of the Republic, Julia Ward Howe)
If you knew the song as a child, and if
you paused a bit to read over the lyrics above, i bet your foot is at
least wanting to tap along to it again.
It's been years since the old song has
curled through my mind. But then last week, in a bathroom stall in
Nairobi, someone began humming it nearby.
I was sick. Had run to the bathroom,
and thanked God during the sprint that there was a bathroom to run
to. Forgive my transparency, but it's shared with good reason. You
see it's when we are lowest that we hear best. When we're down we can
see better. When we're sick, we feel our need and when we're sick on
a toilet, we can't be distracted by other things (hopefully we're in
there alone).
I'd been sick for a few days, off and
on. It wasn't anything serious, but i was not well. I was alone.
Hurting. And so, i began to pray. (Imagine the One i worship is also
the One who will stay with me even when I'm confined to a restroom
stall. He truly does not care how things look... He does not worry
over what others might say.)
As i prayed, time passed by, and i
began to wonder if i was ever going to be able to leave the unwanted
seat i had been assigned.
Then the humming started. Not from me,
from someone nearby.
Ever so faintly, almost distant in it's
sound.
My mind began clicking trying to find
the familiar tune from the files of my childhood.
Slowly the words formed.
Some sounded wrong, i struggled to
correct them.
...look a way, beyond, the moon...
no... it's not moon...
...look a way, beyond, the sun... no..
ah yes, it's the blue... look a way, beyond the blue...
...do Lord, oh do Lord, ...remember
me...
The quiet lady, whose job is to tend
the bathroom, was humming in the gentlest of ways. A song from my
childhood, in a toilet on the other side of the world.
My stomach slowly gave up its struggle,
my head focused on the tune.
She never uttered a word, but just
hummed as my mind sang along with her.
Day after day, she sits in the
restroom, cleaning up messes left by others. No windows, no fresh
air, just white tile floors to clean and toilet rolls to fill. But as
she did her work, she hummed. What a humble position she has in this
world.
But, she doesn't seem to care what
people think of her.
She seemed thankful to have a job; she
can feed her children.
What others think just doesn't measure
up to that.
And this grown up little girl was taken
back to the days of shiny black shoes and frilly socks when momma and
daddy were just down the hall and sister and brother were polished up
and sitting smart in their Sunday best too. Where everyone knew her
and they'd cared when she knelt down on her skinny knees, struggling
to believe, that the good One would remember her, that the kind One
would want her.
And now she was thankful a second time
for the tissue paper, this time it was was needed for her tears. For
they flowed sweetly over the way the One who remembers us always,
came flooding in again.
His Robes brushed by ------ even in a
bathroom stall ---- you see His girl was there, and so He would be as
well.
The song was originally sung by
suffering slaves at work in the field.
(Oh God, how cruel this world can be.)
Then it came to children in pretty
country churches in settings fit to be painted.
Now it's hummed by a dear, silent soul
working in a tucked away public toilet.
And You use it again, to remind me that
----- YOU REMEMBER me.
You remember us in the fields, when
fresh lashes glimmered wet blood.
You remember us in classrooms, where
You were first introducing yourself to little ones.
You remember us in the places no one
notices, where no one wants to stay for long.
You remember us when we're sick, and
tired, and weak.
We are smaller than the tiniest fleck
in the vastness of the worlds You have made.
But still, You remember us.
So God, i'll remember You when i'm in
the field working. No blood glimmers on my back, but may it always
sparkle in my soul.
I'll remember You when i'm in the
classroom of this life, still getting to know You and Your ways.
I'll remember You in the places i find
myself, where no one else is near, no one would want to be.
I'll remember You when i'm beside the
sick ones, the tired ones, the weak ones ------ i'll remember You to
them.
You're the only thing i have that's
worth remembering to them.
You're the wonderful One i have, they
need to know you remember them.
Gathering myself together, i emerged
from the bathroom stall. No one was there, but i could hear the
humming from the hallway outside. With hands washed and gratitude
spoken in the mirror, as my reflection and me, thanked the One who
met us in this unpleasant place, my footsteps went straight to her.
She smiled, looked down, and waited for me to pass.
“Were you just humming a song?”
“M-hmm, i was.”
“What is the song called?”
So shyly, not sure of herself at all,
“It was Do Lord”, do you know it?”
“Oh yes, i think i do, does it go
like this...”
and i began to sing. Softly at first.
Her face lit up and quietly she sang as
well.
Then i felt the billows blowing inside.
My great-grandfather blacksmith would have smiled i'm sure, but more
importantly, i could sense the nearness of white robes.
So i sang a bit more loudly.
Her smile grew as did her volume.
And by the time we reached the end, we
were singing like Sunday School girls in frilly white socks, letting
the flow of life echo off the cinder block walls around us. Our
names, our jobs, our color, our pains ----- they didn't matter. The
One who remembers us both ------- was the only thing on both our
minds.
And we knew ------- He does remember
us.
Perhaps that's what matters most.
Is that when others see us, when others
talk about us, when others remember us ------
may they be stuck with nothing more to
say than ------ “she loves that Lord of hers...”
©2015 Reaching for the Robe. Donna Taylor
©2015 Reaching for the Robe. Donna Taylor