I remember my Mother worshiping God. More than I remember anything else about her, I remember that.
When I was just nose-high to the pew, I would look up at her during worship with a mix of respect and curiosity. As she would rise to worship God, something about her changed. There was no warming-up for her, no reluctance. She was never too tired.
At home, she would often pull out her accordion or sit at the piano, and play and sing to the Lord. It was a rare Sunday that I didn’t wake-up to her singing.
As a kid, I didn’t understand where her worship came from, or why she seemed absent from the room, even though she was right there beside me. I didn’t know why she cried sometimes, or how she could know all the words and never need a song book. My Mother wasn’t the finest singer or musician, but she didn’t hold back anything.
My Mother’s worship of the Lord was a wonder to me and a child, and as I grew up watching her week after week, year after year, her example taught me about the character of God. She taught me that worship wasn’t about the song, but about an intimate encounter with God—and, that was entirely up to me. I could choose to enter in or hold back, but to withhold the worship due Him would be my loss.
It’s a rare worship service that I don’t remember my Mother worshiping the Lord. I remember her example, and I remember He is worthy—no matter the song or the pain or the burdens I brought in with me. She never let those things hinder her.
I know I’ve shared this many times, but here’s another!