What if worship looked like...

I play in a worship band in church. We are a relatively small congregation of about a hundred or so; keyboardists are not great in number. Being on rotation with three other pianists, I get rostered to play about once a month. I began learning the piano in the early primary school years, and completed my grade 8 ABRSM examinations by the time I finished secondary school. Sometime in my early adult years, I found many of my peers in church getting plugged into the church community by serving. Somehow, it seemed that most would gravitate toward some kind of youth, cell group, or worship team-related ministry. Not wanting to be left out, perhaps, but also with a real desire to play the piano during worship service, I joined in too. I had long been a "closet pianist", and always had a vague desire to be able to play as freely as the keyboardists I heard during worship service.

To be honest, I have never considered myself an accomplished pianist. Even as a classical pianist, I was never very fluent, and always felt very inadequate as I never sounded as impressive as my elder sister with four more years of piano training! For an audience, I have only ever had my piano teacher, the piano examiner (once a year), and my family members who, I assumed, had to put up with my clumsy playing.

And when I moved on to improvising and playing by ear after grade 8, I found that even when I was able to play the correct chords, and could hear well, I struggled to translate what I heard to the notes my fingers would play. I became a closet pianist, as I felt shy about letting others hear my stilted attempts. When I joined the worship team, there would be a new series of challenges awaiting me. Playing alone is one thing, playing with others in a band quite another. It would take me several years before finally realising what that meant.

Now, I daresay I can play my role in the worship band - most of the time - to the extent that I am able to fit in (by more than just playing quietly so as not to be heard!). I understand the importance of keeping to the tempo set by the drummer, and to contribute to the dynamics of the song.

That much has changed. Yet, some things haven't. Still, I find myself terribly self-conscious, which often means I am not bold enough to experiment freely with different ways of playing when playing with the band. 

What more, playing in the worship team often feels like a lot of work - hard work. There is often a lot to remember - modulations, dynamics, number of repetitions, points to cuts, notes to play (especially when in an unfamiliar key), and anything else that could arise during the worship session itself. Some worship leaders can be more exacting than others, and when that's the case, it becomes doubly stressful.

So, what if "worship" looks like a lot of work, as might be convey sometimes? On the very surface, what people are seeing on a Sunday morning during "praise and worship" is this - musicians playing skilfully (or otherwise). Music is a God-given gift, which is often an instrument used by God to accompany prophecy and spiritual warfare in the Bible. The church deserves nothing less than skilful musicians! When musicians struggle to be skilful, when patisserie chefs persist in tempering the glossiest chocolate, when artists spend sleepless nights perfecting a painting, it can look like much hard work. Why would it not? 

During the praise and worship segment of the worship service, what is seen is musicians presenting their bodies as living sacrifices, their spiritual act of worship - what is required of all followers of Christ - in the context of their service as worship musicians. It is no wonder, if we should notice the elements which make up that sacrificing. Perhaps, that gratitude and reverence for God can sometimes be seen not because of how skilfully the musician has played, but in how faithfully they have persevered to keep on coming before God - with whatever they have - in contrition of heart. 

What if, the images pulled up in a Google search for church worship do little to capture the essence of genuine, God-pleasing worship? And if expectations are being set up based on those sorts of images, and all that is required in conjuring them up, it may be time to question those expectations. 

And so, playing in a worship band is, and should be much hard work, when musicians give sacrificially to hone their craft to fulfil their God-assigned office. Yet, great comfort is to be found in that worship is also rest. God's invitation to come to Him are for all - and He asks that we do so with childlike simplicity, acknowledging who we are - sinners turned saints before a Holy God. When all is said and done, and not a moment remains for any further practice, we simply offer what we have - and with what our hearts reveal, may He be pleased. 

Life Outside the Garden

In this city state where I live, more than 5 million people share a mere 721.5 square kilometres of space. There's no denying it - it's crowded here. Running into a colleague, friend, or old acquaintance is easy. Since I work a job requiring close teamwork and collaboration with people all the time, I find myself constantly surrounded by people. My after work hours are blessed with the company of family and friends - people with whom I have chosen to be with. My days are filled with countless interactions with person after person.

Why then, do I find myself longing for connection - why am I not exempt from loneliness? And while  longing for that connection with people, why do I so constantly run away from them, instead seeking out solo escapades and adventures to where I am least likely to run into anyone I know, almost on a daily basis?

The plain fact is this - that being with people simply does not equate connecting with them. Days filled with interactions are simply part and parcel of life in a city. Just imagine how different it would be, if I were holed up in a cabin in the woods (, writing)!

People are not merely flesh and blood. We are spiritual beings, at the heart. In commercial exchanges words are passed back and forth, as are goods and services. Hello, thank you, and goodbye are our accepted manners of speech. At work, so many of us have worked hard at learning the nuances of its language. Like frames of reference, they rescue us from being at a loss for words. They keep the machinery functioning. Yet, they have allowed us to simply go through the motions. We have learnt what to say, under what circumstances, and have found a way to keep our "true selves" quite uninvolved, beneath it all.

This has left me parched, thirsty for the refreshment of friendship - and yet, I have chosen time after time to refrain from letting the real me show. And why would that be a surprise? For so many of us have learnt that our real selves may not always be reciprocated the way we hoped. Instead, we were looked upon dubiously, as though we were foreigners, who did not understand the customs of the land. We resorted to the safety of having become tropes to one another, our stories hidden beneath our  scrupulously-assembled sets and costumes. We stalk each other furiously on social media, and fear not being able to keep up, while acting cool and detached in real life.

We live in the aftermath of Babel, we wander outside the garden. We have chosen to identify with Cain, who chose to pursue his brother with death, rather than love. We live among a struggling creation - so why should we be surprised at the gnawing sense of loneliness?

It has been all too easy to give up the fight for friendship, for the too-often misunderstood gift above all gifts - love. Paradoxically, the crowdedness of life here has made it possible to walk through a crowd, and not see or be seen in return. To choose the life of a recluse is dangerously easy.

Yet, the biblical mandate is to keep on hoping, to keep on loving. We were designed to live in relationship with one another, where although misunderstanding and offending one another are givens, this side of eternity, forgiveness and persevering love are available in greater measure.

Being the beloved, I can rest in the Father's sure acceptance of me, and redeem each precious moment  where paths are truly crossed. I can choose to see people, not with physical, but with spiritual eyes - which though being invisible, make the invisible visible. Thus is my hope. Thus is our hope.

Perfect in all of His ways

You are perfect in all of your ways. What comfort is often brought by refrains of truth, as was brought by these words last Sunday, heard during church service in the song 'Good, good Father'. I had gone to service upset and uptight, but could feel that tension dissipate with those words. I was reeling from a disagreement in which I had finally insisted that I should have my way. I felt I was justified, that I had been wronged for too long - that I had a better way, and that I should be allowed - finally allowed - to do things my way. Yet I felt confused - I had desperately wanted my way to be the right way - but was it really?

Those words made me realise that I could lay down fighting, and rest instead, in God's all-encompassing knowledge of me. In God's overarching plan of wisdom and love, He promises that darkness is as light to Him. He promises His presence, wherever I should find myself. I felt cords unravel. I felt free from the burden of having to go by my way. 

I sensed the invitation to commune with Him - to bring before Him plain, unsanitised thoughts, raw emotions, childish plans in all their honesty. Hiding came with that first bite of forbidden fruit; shame was nailed to the cross. All too often, I have sought to reason with man, or to figure things out myself - knowing that God was watching all of it. Now, I heard His call to no longer treat Him as a silent onlooker. I am beginning to trust that He could, would, and would always be perfect enough to handle all that I throw at Him. Not that He would do things my way - not that I would always understand His way - simply, that I could trust Him. 

And as I lean upon Him, I learn to rest. The many voices which had enticed and confused me fade, and soon, I hear only the steady rhythm of a heart beating - His heart. I become aware of a growing desire to know His ways, and to reexamine mine in the light of His. 

Silent Gems

A writer writes. - Sahara Special, Esme Codell

Maybe so. 

My earliest recollection of the desire to write (perhaps with a capital "W") was of writing, illustrating, and binding my own books when I was a little girl. The desire has stayed with me, through all of school life and beyond. Writing for academic purposes has come easily for me, and I am thankful for that. But it was not primarily for academic, or utilitarian purposes that I wanted to write. I wanted to write poetry, particularly - or just to write poetically. Then I wanted to write books. When I rediscovered children's books, I wanted to write them. I wanted to write beautifully. 

Why then have I, through the years, written so little? I have thought about writing, read about writing, and read others' writing - all at the expense of writing, or so it seems. Had I chance to reencounter those days, surely I would do differently? Perhaps not, surprise, surprise. Were those missed opportunities? I did once see them as such. Yet perhaps I have gained another perspective. Those days, even those days spent not writing, are part of my journey. They colour and paint my current world view, desire, and experience. They are to be treasured, rather than treated as dross. 

So, let these written words be a tribute to those non-writing days, which are gems in their own right because:

.: I see now that writing is indeed a worthy, complex craft. Words are powerful, and hence worthy. Writing is complex, and hence should not be a task undertaken flippantly. Gemstones are weighed by their worth, and so are words.  

.: Writing was pressure, let that pressure now yield its treasure. School’s unrelenting message was, “write well, be rewarded.” And though that meant that writing was not pure pleasure then, it is the measured incisions of the master gem cutter which bring out their beauty.   

.: Gems are measured by their clarity, and so are words. Poetry would lose its essence, if not for the generous space holding words apart. In writing, many words may mar the writer’s message. Hence it’s not the volume of words that matter, but the message.   

.: Yet-to-be gemstones remain hidden deep inside the earth for years and years, working simply on becoming, have shown me the value of silence, waiting, and just perhaps, keeping meaningfully occupied in the meantime. 

Most of all: 

I am reminded again that I am to be the bearer of the message, not its originator. And if so, I do not alone determine what I should write or when. I am to be attentive to that Voice, sometimes still and small, sometimes cedar-breaking powerful. And when He says, “write!” Then, must I.   

Breakfast at Tiffany's

It all started with my bff, and a song, Moon River, one of her favorites. Seeing how she loved the song, I searched out its origin, and found that it was composed for the film Breakfast at Tiffany's starring Audrey Hepburn in 1961. Breakfast at Tiffany's. I know I had read it once, standing on the threshold from teenage into adulthood. It's more than ten years on now, but I soon found myself deep in the pages of the book, somewhat embarrassed and surprised.

Holly Golightly is nineteen, footloose, free-spirited, searching and desperately wants to belong somewhere. Yet she's also fiercely idealistic, tender-hearted and extremely vulnerable. As for me, I am more than ten years older, married, established in my career, and have got it all sorted regarding how I should live, and why. I know where I belong. Surely?

I was embarrassed and surprised at how much I could identify with Holly, even though surely by now I must have grown out of all that adolescent angst. I hope. And it is partly true that I have. In Holly it is largely a reflection I see, but not simply a reflection as in a mirror. Instead, the experience is more like standing on the banks of a river, watching the current carry a series of images downstream, not quite snapshots of my life, but each reminiscent of something.

There was that search for a place to belong, with the many mirage-like moments of having found it. There was that sense of futility and transience in each illusive dream promising only false hope. And yes, there were anxiety attacks a-plenty, like the "mean reds" which sent Holly flying to Tiffany's, a place where "nothing very bad could happen to you". My bff has witnessed how I have made wastelands of destruction out of desperation when my version of the "mean reds" hit. Knowing the stories of some of my friends, I know that I am not the only who would identify with Holly.

Image source

Holly drifts, yet hers is a purposeful drifting guided by her heart. She knows just how she'll feel when she's finally "home".

I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like... it's like Tiffany's. ... It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there.  

If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name. 

Near the end of the book, Holly leaves for Brazil, still drifting. In her usual dramatic, hot-headed fashion, Holly throws her nameless cat that she never felt belonged to her out of a cab window in Harlem on the way to the airport, and regrets it moments later. The narrator promises to return to search the cat out, and does so successfully one day. The book closes with the image of the cat in a Harlem window, "flanked by potted plants and framed by clean lace curtains... seated in the window of a warm-looking room", clearly having found that place of belonging." I hope Holly has, too", the narrator concludes, and the reader hopes on, too.

"And where is home?" I remember a friend asking some years back, when I told him that I was on a search for such a place. I can't quite remember how I answered him. I do know, however, that the disappointments, heartbreaks, losses, broken relationships, shattered dreams the years of drifting have brought did not come without the gifts of a surer faith in the the goodness of God and His sovereignty, a deeper knowledge of His love, and the certainty that I am being changed daily to reflect the character of my  loving Lord Jesus Christ.

For now, home is not heaven. Instead, it is the deep knowledge that I belong to God who bought me with the priceless blood of His Son. My identity is as His child, secure in His unfailing love. My story makes sense, but only in the light of His wisdom, a wisdom sometimes beyond the understanding of my finite mind. So daily, moment by moment (especially when the "mean reds" come), I run home. My soul yearned for satisfaction those drifting years. It will continue to yearn forever. Only, now, I know the object of its yearning, and to whom I belong.

There is a God shaped vacuum in the heart of every man which cannot be filled by any created thing, but only by God, the creator, made known through Jesus. - Blaise Pascal

Meeting the Author

Guest lecturer: Kristin Tubb it said in the syllabus. Assigned reading for the week: Selling Hope by Kristin Tubb. Ok, I thought. That'd be interesting. The author's coming to speak to us. Did I hear an oh wow coming from someone? Two weeks ago, Julie Donelson (Jules), author of Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, came to guest lecture too. You're so lucky! Did someone say?

To be honest, I was not as excited as it might be imagined I'd be. For one thing, I was not familiar with Kristin Tubb's books. I needed to know what I thought of her books first, so that I could carefully measure just the right amount of excitement to feel about her visit. What if I didn't like her books? Then having her come would really be just so-so. As for Jule's visit, well, she is a blogger, not an author. At that point, I was still weighing in my mind if blogging was a respectable genre, or not. I'm still thinking that no, there is a big difference between writing a blog, and writing a book. I must be honest - there is something weighty about having written a great book that makes me go oh wow.

And I'm sure that's not an uncommon sentiment. Oh wows were audibly heard today when Kristin shared with us today that she had the chance to interview Madeleine L'Engle over the phone as a sixth grader. I mean, it was the Madeleine L'Engle she was talking about.

In no way do I mean that we should attribute differentiated amounts of respect to people because of their achievements. But I do think I understand what makes us go oh wow when an author of a great book comes to visit. Books are little worlds in their own entities; to escape into a book is a phrase often heard used. For an hour or two, we are conscious not to the reality in which we are a part of, but the created reality of the book. For a great book, this is truer than true. And so, the respect, the wow factor, is given because of the world imagined, created.

Or is it? Because authors don't create the actual worlds, they only imagine them to be, and write them into a book. But we would, for a time, believe in the reality of their worlds, we would be awed by them. We would go so far as to feel oh wow.

And yet. What about this world we live in? What about the epic proportion of its story? What about the characters upon characters, each complex beyond description? What about the backdrop for each anticipated scene, each on the perfect setting? Why do we not have more respect for its creator? Is it because it is beyond what we can comprehend? Is it because we cannot grasp it with our hands, and dictate its workings the way we can with a book? Is it a great story only when all goes according to our will? Only when we can somehow wrap our minds around it?

Dear Heavenly Father, I want to approach you with oh wow all the time. This story you have written, the pages of which I am walking in, is beyond my grasp. I fail to read between the lines, I do not realize my motivations or those of others. I fail to have faith that you know the plans you have for me. I worry that I'd ruin those plans. Let the limitedness of my own mind never keep my spirit from breathing oh wow at a limitless God.

The giving of imperfect gifts

One of the surest ways of holding back from giving is to think, "I haven't got the perfect gift for her". It's what also keeps me from helping someone else: "I don't know enough about _______ to help", "someone can do this better than I can". How foolish. And what a lonely world it would be, if we had to always wait for the best person to help us, before we could receive help. How few gifts I would receive, if only perfect gifts were acceptable.

The recipe was from Happy Home Baking. The special one with the heart was for my husband.

Earlier today, I made a tray of pineapple tarts: imperfect pineapple tarts. Somehow, the dough didn't roll well and kept cracking when I was trying to mold it. It was frustrating, especially when each misshapen, cracked tart exacerbated the anguish I felt at being further and further from having perfectly-formed pineapple tarts for my friends this Chinese New Year. I had looked forward to this all week, so the disappointment was intense.

To offer a gift takes courage; the gift might suffer rejection. But to offer an imperfect gift takes even more courage; it seems the odds are greater that it will not be accepted.

So take courage, my soul, take even more courage since your life is a daily offering of broken, misshapen gifts, each bearing the precious promise of redemption, to be fulfilled once each gift is offered, faithfully by the One Source of all gifts.

Greater

Today just wasn't one of those days I came home feeling on top of the world. It wasn't anything major, just the combination of challenging assignments at school and the cold of the winter's day.

It was just the shadow cast by the apprehension that I wouldn't be able to accomplish various assignments well, the echo of the voice of an accusation from the past of some failure, the sense of defeat suggested by the chill of winter getting to what felt were my bones, though I had worn my thickest gear.

The last class for the day ended with a lecture on multimodal composition. It was definitely very interesting to hear of how modal strands can be combined in varied ways to achieve the composer's desired effect, like in book trailers. It sounded challenging, nonetheless. If only I had tried more of this sort of thing with my students in the past...

I called my husband on the phone for a ride home. Voicemail. Heavenly Father, please? Call again. Voicemail.

And so I walk back, mainly trying to keep warm, but still managing to notice the calmness of the azure sky, faintly turning to evening, and the confidence of the sandstone church building, standing still after all these years.

Home at last. Music is playing. "It's a cold day out," I tell husband. It's nice to see him. He feels my hands, he feels the cold. He takes me into his arms for a warm hug. I hear the lyrics of the song that is playing. They are precisely:

Here in your arms

I know what I am

I'm forgiven

I'm forgiven

And I don't have to carry the weight of who I've been

'Cause I'm forgiven

Wow. A God-orchestrated moment of manifested tenderness. I feel like God and I are starring in a book trailer for the movie, Forever Love. It is a multimodal production in every way, and more powerful than any book trailer I've ever watched. Plot: Just an everyday story of feeling challenged by the world, and saved by the living God. Setting: The juxtaposition between the biting winter air and the warmth of the home. Theme: Divine love, manifested through human arms. Soundtrack: Forgiven, by Sanctus Real.

Director: My loving Heavenly Father, who sends this precious experience to remind me that my identity is found in Him alone, who longs for me to cease striving, and know that He is God.

Just as long as we're together

Stephanie Hirsh- that’s her name. Judy Blume's Stephanie Hirsh, main character of 'Just as long as we're together'. Stephanie Hirsh, the eternal optimist, according to her best friend, Rachel. I’m surprised by how much I remember of a book I read almost twenty years ago; but then again, I did read this one over and over and over again.

It was just that phrase that floated up today and arrested my attention. The eternal optimist. On hindsight, Rachel had called Stephanie that almost in a belittling manner, as if there was something wrong with being an optimist.

I don’t remember ever having thought about it then, but now, it is so obvious why Rachel, supposedly the more mature of the two friends, would think it naïve to be an optimist.

Perhaps it was my own naïveté, but it could just be because I knew little of American culture then. I could be wrong in attributing this to the American culture, though, this could be more universal than that. But it is probably true to say that it is considered “cool” among American youth to speak negatively. Complains, criticisms, writing off – to the extent that someone who’s always holding a positive opinion is deemed a misfit, or an idealist.

I can see why. A mature view of life does see life not in terms of the beautiful parts alone, ignoring the painful bits. Growing up certainly involves knowing that things may not always turn out hunky-dory. But this mature view does not exclude the possibility that one sees hope in difficult circumstances, finds fulfillment in working hard at challenging tasks, and chooses to see the good where there is an equal chance of seeing either.

Some would call such person an optimist, even an eternal optimist, but there is nothing belittling about such a title, and certainly nothing naïve.

The true eternal optimist can only be someone who puts her hope, or trust, in God alone. In other words, someone with childlike faith. There is nothing naïve in this.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you. Psalm 9:10

I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it. Mark 10:15