I used to sing in the car to myself, to my babies, to the sky. In our “before Ireland” days, I’d wake up with the sun to drive my husband to work. Then I’d sit in the parking lot on sweaty afternoons waiting for him to clock out with a hungry, fussy baby passing minutes in the backseat. Every day, that chubby boy and I would count those minutes—hours, really—in song.
The before-Ireland days were long ones, lending time to many, many songs. In those days, Sara Groves did my praying for me, Waterdeep my liturgy. My corporate worship consisted of my tears, a baby’s coos, and my Midwestern musical allies singing me towards patience, towards hope, towards obedience.
I was weary in those days.
Oh Lord, my heart / is not lifted up
This is the story of praying without words, worshiping without voice, and how music does the heavy lifting for us when our arms our too weak to heave the load.
Thanks, as ever, to Velvet Ashes for letting me share my rambling thoughts with them (of which there are far too many!). By the way, my time as the image editor for VA is coming to an end and we're in the market for a graphic design artist with a heart for women living overseas. Know anyone interested? Give us a shout!