Memories

I tiptoed on bare feet to the top of the stairs of my uncle’s two-story house.  I was above the crowded living room where the people were gathered, above the rising swells of rhythmic song. The guitars, the drums and the voices all melted into one single throb of emotion and feeling. The dim lights made my head light with longing and I sank to the carpeted floor to gaze down through the iron bars of the balcony.  The scene below was well-known and comforting. The thoughts, the feelings were as familiar to me as the lines of my smooth palms. Each face in the crowd was precious. My spunky sister, my patient aunt, my beautiful cousin, my gracious best friend...they were all special in each individual way.

Balancing a leather-bound journal in my lap I fingered its worn edges. My body slowly began swaying to the rhythm of the echoing worship below. A black bible lay near my knee. Red tape was stuck across the center. A single word, in black marker was written across the front cover. LIFE. The ‘Word’ was life to me. Life to all those gathered below. It infused life into the words we sang and the prayers we prayed.

I sank into a peaceful mindset of oblivion for yet another Friday night of worship and intercession. It was not only familiar and dear but a part of my very being. The worship never remained the same. The songs would take on a life of their own in the mouths of the singers. The prayers would mingle in between and around and straight through, like a sweeping vortex of passion and gentleness. The paradox could be confusing for an outsider or perhaps very inspiring.

For six hours we would be here, on our faces, on our knees, on our backs and on our feet. I sat, one hand on each knee, still rocking. My eyes slowly closed, letting my spirit connect to heaven...to Jesus. I very rarely felt the tangible ‘presence,’ not like the others. Their testimonies make me yearn for more. Faith, however, is not seeing, but believing. The unseen, the unfelt....that was where truth faith would always be found.

I like to sit on the balcony because I could feel the atmosphere better above it all. Amidst the people, as much as I loved them all, I felt contained. On the balcony there was freedom. My hand fell to the open journal in my lap. The words written one thise dog-eared pages were the longings of an eighteen-year-old dreamer...an idealist...or maybe a girl full of hope. I could feel on these pages, live on these pages, and become something more real than anything here on earth. In these pages I could be what I was created to be....a worshipper of God. My written words were prayers...prayers for the needy, for the broken and the destitute. Every word was like breath back to heaven.  

I breathed deeply and opened my eyes, now staring out above the living room, through the open bay windows, out into my uncle’s urban neighborhood, past the shadows of the tilting roofs and into the glowing warm lights of the city. Out there was what this was all about. People. Hearts. Life. They needed Jesus, just as desperately as every one needed Him, as everyone in this room needed Him.  Prayer was our move of war, our move of action, our most violent hope.