I’m early for the third service so I sit with a fresh little donut hole and half-cup of coffee in the foyer, watching the full sanctuary empty. It’s barely held them all, these animated bubbly ones, for the popular 10:00 Sunday morning service. It’s my first time back in a while. First time without him.

This isn’t a church where “everybody knows my name,” through no fault of theirs, only mine. This was our church when we first retired and moved up here to the lake. We loved the teaching, the people, the music. We reveled in the luxury of getting up late Sunday mornings, taking our time with our morning coffee before heading around the north end of the lake to the foot of those towering mountains that we looked at every day. We chose our familiar “church seats” halfway up center aisle, stood to sing, warmed by the beautiful worship and the newness of this “beautiful irrelevance.” (Timothy Willard)

From the time I was a girl, I have been up front. Solos, praise teams, piano, guitar. Harmonizing with my sisters, directing a choir, teaching. For decades Sunday morning services didn’t start without me. These retirement years in the cabin have been one long, gentle lesson in discovering who I am without a public persona, without the responsibilities, the preparations, the pressure, the privilege and pleasure of serving up front.

Now, nearly twenty years later, I’m feeling a bit adrift this morning . . . even as the second song moves through the room. Nostalgia, loss, longing. Do I still have a purpose here beyond the little coffee and donut hole, the perfunctory smiling in greeting as I find my seat? Should I work at connecting, making a new friend? Fill out a card? Join a Ladies’ Bible Study? Sign up to tutor again after school? Does it matter that I’m here? I can watch the service from home.

“ . . . I raise a Hallelujah, louder than the unbelief. 
I raise a Hallelujah, my weapon is a melody . . .”

Ah, there it is. Thank You, Lord. “My weapon is a melody.” I needed to be right here this morning to be reminded. As it has always been, my weapon against hurt and despair and doubt is my praise. I raise a Hallelujah, that song that only I can sing. Whatever happens, He is sovereign, He is good, He is with me, and this day is a gift. Even as my world narrows and quiets, remind me, Lord, what still matters.

The simplest of truths, told through the sweetest of songs, can change the world.  –Ann Voskamp.

Not a platform. Not superior intellect. Not the gifts long-honed for service. Just a simple song. And so I write, not concerned with relevance but responsibility. Responsibility for the melody I’ve been given, especially now. What still matters.

Write what should not be forgotten.  –Isabelle Allende





12 thoughts on “I raise a hallelujah”

  1. You are a vital part of the Body, my friend. “God has set the members, each one of them, in the body just as He pleased.” “If one member suffers, all members suffer with it; or if one member is honored, all members rejoice with it.” Revisit 1 Corinthians 12, dear sister. Do not think your absence irrelevant. That would be a grave mistake.

    Grateful for you,
    JoAnn

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  4. I’m so sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. I must’ve somehow missed your January post. My heartfelt condolences to you and your family.

    I opened my mail today and my heart did a little skip when I saw that you’d posted-because I know that what you have written will warm and encourage me- little old me sitting on the other side of the Atlantic whom you have never met! Now that is a purpose! What I’d give to sit

    and share a cup of coffee and a ring donut with you! I love to encourage you in the way you encourage so many others with your voice, your words. We have this treasure in jars of clay so that the glory goes to Him! It’s good that we don’t fully see the impact we have this side of eternity so we don’t get swollen heads! But a glimpse is encouragement to keep going! X

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    1. Oh my goodness, thank you for these words. Sweet encouragement. “Jars of clay.” Thank you for that reminder too. And yes, wouldn’t that be fun to sit for a visit with donut and coffee. I have not written regularly these past two years. I was focused mostly on being present with my guy, adjusting to his needs and the things he enjoyed. I’m so grateful I did. Hoping to get more regular, and to finish my cabin book. I am in transition here as we begin construction on a new cabin for me. Such mixed feelings since have fought so hard to keep the old one. We will see how much I feel like sharing as we move along. Thank you for reading and encouraging. Hope this finds you well on your side of the Atlantic.

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  6. Oh Becky, I somehow missed the post about your husband’s passing, too. I’m so sorry. Your post today deeply resonates with me and I am in a different life stage and situation. I struggle all the time with feeling purpose and whether anything I do actually matters. Hearing you, a beautiful, articulate writer and teacher express my deepest thoughts made me go: no! How can she say that about herself? She is vital to the body, to the community, to all of us! And so it made me look at myself and think that same. Keep writing, Becky. Keep showing up at church. Even on the back row. I am so thankful for your voice. Sometimes I don’t feel significant if I don’t have a platform or a certain number of likes or views but your post today reminds me that our physical presence, the song in our heart, matters. Deeply grateful for you.

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    1. Thank you for these kind words. Life is very different without him, even though the Lord was preparing me. Finding my way, falling into familiar rhythms until it feels right. I am sad that this blog no longer shows me who is writing/commenting. I’m not sure what happened, but every comment is “Anonymous.” Thank you for your encouragement, for reminding me to keep singing my melody. Aren’t we blessed to have each other as the body of Christ. Again, a heartfelt thank you. Keep sharing your song!

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  7. That picture of the lake and mountains is beautiful. Is that your view? Church gives you fellowship, but I believe you could find God right there. Sorry to hear your husband passed. I am also a widow. Widowhood opens your eyes to a different perspective.

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  8. Thqnk you Sheila. Yes, this is my view! And I do find Him here each day. I know I need the fellowhip so I will keep following familiar patterns until they feel right again. Indeed it does give you a whole new perspective, widowhood. I miss him so. Thank you for your words.

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  9. Becky, please keep writing , finish the cabin book! How I love reading your words. You will always be relevant because you’re not alone. Others go thru life with similar experiences or even different ones that feel similar.

    You’re building a new house! Will you share progress? What happens to the old log cabin?

    Nancy Morser

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