Kleenex

I do believe I gave myself until Saturday to shed these tears.

But they did not come until this morning.

I got to service at Southland and sat down to listen to a sermon about Worship.

Everything was fine. I sat in the chair watching all the people around me. The babies and the couples and the groups of friends. This morning I could pick the freshmen out of the crowd... and my eyes kept searching for someone familiar.

No one in particular. Maybe someone I didn't even know. Just someone familiar. Am I the only one who does that? The one that feels lonely in a crowd. Even a crowd whose arms are as widely outstretched as the family of Southland? I have a sneaking suspicion all I'd have to do is reach out once ... that would be all it would take.

But most days I don't have that courage.

The couple who sat in front of me caught my eye. She was cute and curvy with beautiful curly hair and a sweet face. He adored her. BIg tall strong man, reaching out to touch her shoulder whenever he could.

And I felt a twinge of jealousy. I pushed it away. It was unwarranted, unnecessary. I replaced it with a certain joy for the couple... a silent prayer that he would continue to touch her that way. That she would continue to smile.

The sermon, to a certain extent, wasn't anything extraordinary. Worship, in the greek, comes from a word that means "to kiss towards" or "to bow down before". It is not about singing. Or whether there are drums on the stage or hymnals in the pews.

Jon started talking, then, about what we do with our hands when we worship.

He made jokes and drew comparisons and explanations.

Then he got to how we raise our hands high, palms outstretched.

And he said...

"This is my little girl when she's tired and needs to know that it is safe to go to sleep."

"Or my son when we falls off the bike and scrapes his knee. It's real pain. But he needs to know that there is someone bigger than himself to make it better."

And the tears came.

Unbidden.

Out of nowhere.

I thought about my sister as a baby who used to stand with her arms outstretched, scrunching her fingers. "Uppy", she would said. She wanted to be picked up. To be held.

Usually I am able to control my tears. They stay fairly under my control, just sliding down my cheeks, making my eyes glisten. Most of the time I stay fairly composed.

But they got to my lungs this time.

And rolled down my neck.

And fell on my lips.

I sniffled, but otherwise remained silent. Face soaked and shoulders shaking.

I don't really know why. And even as I write this I feel them coming back... pushing at my eyelids and my throat. They are not spent yet. They'll come again.

I prayed. Or... groaned, hoping the holy spirit would pray for me. So often my words fall short of anything coherent. Sentences refuse to form and my mind hits a wall, and I know the words I know are not enough. So I say I'm sorry and rest in the fact that the Lord knows my heart... and knows what I'm trying to say. Even when I can't.

When we were done praying I raised up to find the sweet girl in front of me reaching over the chair to hand me two tissues.

Part of me was mortified.

I had forgotten I was surrounded by hundreds of people.

Forgotten they could see me.

But she didn't say a word.

She didn't look at me like I was crazy. Or ask to lay hands on me or even ask if I was okay.

No.

She did exactly what she needed to do.

She gave me something I needed.

In the midst of feeling lonely and overwhelmed and far too small...

God reminded me that I could be seen.

So I used one tissue and tucked the other one in my Bible.

And I plan to keep it there.