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I walked into a full room of people feeling disillusioned, overwhelmed, and disheartened. As I sat on the newly pressed chairs beneath my bosom, I exhaled deeply. It’d been a busy hectic day.
After a two-hour dance practice, my heart wept at the grave of my brother. The weather outside matched the occasion: Gloomy, grim, and dreary. I think that’s how most if not all of us would describe death. We weren’t created for it after all.
Mustering strength, my husband and I then visited my Grandpa. A sudden phone call the night before made me aware of his admittance to the hospital. His bowels weren’t working and a blockage was creating harm. But in person, he seemed good. Cheerful. Lively. More talkative.
Now, here I sat at a worship night. A worship night I’d agreed to sing at before the series of events of that day unfolded before me. Why? Because as much as I was hurting, I wanted to worship. I wanted to praise. I wanted to prove to myself and my God that He was still worthy of my words and voice, even when everything around me was crumbling and taken away.
