Outside my comfort zone

Next Sunday, on Easter, I am going to do something I have not done in over a year: sing a solo for special music at church. Now I have been leading music, and before last spring I was singing on a regular basis for more than 20 years. But in the last year I have not sung at all. And this time feels a bit outside of my comfort zone. Why? During the spring and summer, during two surgeries and radiation therapy, I didn't feel up to much singing or being in the spotlight. And since my third surgery last fall, the mediastinoscopy that meant a tube was inserted and run along my esophagus, my voice has been unpredictable and I can't count on it. Add to that the fact that the drug I take has some side-effects that are detrimental to the voice, and I felt pretty done in.

But this week, the pastor sent out a request for some help with music for Easter. And the thing that occurred to me is that not to offer would make me a hypocrite. For years, I have preached at others regarding the fact that music in worship is an offering, not a performance. One needn't be perfect, just obedient and willing. And here I was, saying "Oh, my voice is not what it used to be: it can crack without warning, so I guess God doesn't want me helping out any more." I felt very convicted of my own double standard: one when it makes other people uncomfortable, and another when it makes me uncomfortable!

So, I will be singing during the prelude time, as we prepare to begin worship. I will be offering an amazing song arranged by Bob Kauflin, with original text by John Newton, called The Look. The words are reprinted below. Off I will go into the space outside my comfort zone, Lord willing, seeking to be obedient and use the gifts God has given me. Please pray for me, Gentle Readers!

The Look By John Newton (original lyrics), Bob Kauflin (alternate and new lyrics and Music)

I saw one hanging on a tree
In agony and blood
Who fixed his loving eyes on me
As near his cross I stood
And never till my dying breath
Will I forget that look
It seemed to charge me with his death
Though not a word he spoke

My conscience felt and owned the guilt
And plunged me in despair
I saw my sins his blood had spilt
And helped to nail him there
But with a second look he said
“I freely all forgive
This blood is for your ransom paid
I died that you might live”

Forever etched upon my mind
Is the look of Him who died
The Lamb I crucified
And now my life will sing the praise
Of pure atoning grace
That looked on me and
Gladly took my place

Thus while his death my sin displays
For all the world to view
Such is the mystery of grace
It seals my pardon too
With pleasing grief and mournful joy
My spirit now is filled
That I should such a life destroy
Yet live by Him I killed

© 2001 Sovereign Grace Praise (BMI).

Encouragement in unlikely places

In the battle with discouragement we all sometimes fight, I am often amazed at the unlikely sources of encouragement a gracious God sends our way.

One of the unlikely sources of encouragement for me lately has come in an inadvertent way from one of the difficult things have done: end my teaching for a time. I think I have felt confirmed in my calling to teach for a long time, and even known it was something I had a knack for. However, in having to give it up for a time, I have watched others struggle to step into my place, and discovered, much to my surprise, that things that are natural and easy for me, are not so for others. God has graciously pointed out that I really do have something to offer the students I teach, and the parents I serve. Who would have thought that giving up what I love to do would encourage me to keep doing it? God, of course.

The last week or so, as I have considered my teaching obligations, I have mostly felt burdened and overwhelmed. But just today, for the first time, after real rest for a few days, I can sense God's encouragement seeping in, and I can believe that one day in the future, I will be ready to teach again. It's just not yet. Right now I have to get my poor old body unstressed and revived a bit, and that takes time and quiet. But somehow, knowing it won't be forever, is an encouragement, too. It has been bleak for the last week or so, to feel no end to my burden. Today, little signs of hope are resurfacing, in unexpected ways. I am thankful for that encouragement.