Lullaby

I don't consider myself a singer. I'm not horrible - my average voice doesn't prevent me from singing in the car, praising God, or breaking into song with my kids. But nobody is going to stop and listen when I sing.

Last Sunday I had just returned to my seat from the communion table - I had sat down to join the singing and I suddenly had this experience of being wrapped in a warm cloak. I stopped singing and listened. There were three men singing, one to my right, one to my left, and one behind me - all with these pure, clear voices. Their song became my song. I didn't sing. I listened. It felt so much more worshipful to listen than to make a sound.

While these people were not singing to me - they were praising God, I realized that for me, in that moment, I was feeling what a child cradled in it's parent's arms must feel like when they are sung a lullaby. Protected, loved, surrounded. The baby takes it in and, somehow through simple song, hears a truth beyond just the words of the song. The baby knows love.

I think God gave me the gift of a lullaby last week. A time to rest in the arms of God. Those men were God's voice and, in some way, we were all wrapped in the warm Spirit of God.