The beauty of an older saint

I secretly despised going to the Sunday night worship service.

We were always supposed to be cheerful going into church, but these services certainly made it difficult. The several hours long service had a host of gray haired singers and musicians from all the surrounding churches worshipping the Lord in a single building.

In the fall, it always cut into Sunday Night Football. In the spring, it cut into the time I would have liked to hang out with friends or to catch up on homework (always been a nerd).

But, as Christ began to get ahold of my heart senior year of high school and beyond, I began to treasure in my heart these worship nights.

Much of the singing and instrument playing was amateur. It certainly was a free concert, I’ll say. But I began to realize that these slightly hunched, shuffling, cane using Christians were singing to God out of a place of sincere witness. That at some point in their life, God had made himself known to them and it changed their life, and since then they had yet to stop singing.

I realized, looking at them up on that stage, that they were me and I was them. We looked different, maybe had some different thought on the world, maybe we acted a bit different; but we had all been affected by the same God.

And since God had set a flame in our soul, none of us can stop singing.

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