A line from one of my favorite old hymns. I firmly believe we can, and ought to, worship wherever we are. But I also know that humans are creatures of habit, and like Hobbits, we like life to continue on calmly, in comforting orderliness and peace. That has not been the path that the Lord has designed for me. I rarely have gotten to stay in one home, or even one city, for many years at a time. The times that we have found churches with like-mindedness and freedom of worship in Holy Spirit have been cherished, and mourned when we had to leave them. Our life situations have changed so often that there does not appear to be a theme, or a constant... anything, except the Lord and our family. So, there has always been love. But in my heart as a young woman, my expectations included finding a man to love and living in one place with him until we attained a great, white-headed, and comfortable old age, in a home our grandchildren could return to and show their tiny ones the swing they played on as children. Instead, our grown children remind each other of one house or another, one school or another, one group of friends or teammates, or another.
The constant has been our love of Jesus, and our faithful desire to follow where He leads us and to do His will. This past June, we accepted a full-time pastorate in a rural part of the Northern Neck of Virginia. Three small churches Ken preaches in every Sunday. Three small groups of precious people living out their lives in community, together, holding to their traditions and their place, even though most of their children have grown and gone away. We are not "born here"s, or even "come here"s. We are "sent here"s. We are pouring out what the Lord has given us, sharing our lessons and experiences and love with people who have had perhaps several-too-many "sent here" pastors who came and went.
In the first six months of our being here, my focus has been on our gravely ill daughter; on making the main floor of the Parsonage a welcoming, warm, light-filled place; and on fitting into the ministry. Our basement here is still chockablock with unpacked and half-unpacked boxes. (Where can I possibly put it all?) The basement office and conference room, which will eventually be my art space, are still cluttered with church office things and more half-unpacked boxes. It makes creating art more difficult, being in the midst of chaos and all.
So I continually ask my Lord Jesus what I need to be doing. What are my purposes here? What are His priorities for me? What is this time to produce? What is foremost? Artist? Prophet? Intercessor? Teacher? Warrior? Friend? Mother? Wife? Pastor's wife??? Daughter; Grandmother; Sister......?
And softly He answers, "Yes."
I admit that I groan against the constraints on my time; the limitations; the obligations, the difficulties. It satisfies my soul to be lost in the act of creating a painting, or the rapture of worship and warfare.
But, O Joy, He has given me two weekly Bible Study groups to teach and lead; to share with and to listen to; to laugh and cry with; to walk with into their own personal discoveries of our Most High and Most Amazing God! A dear friend prophesied over me just today that I am using different brushes to paint God's colors on hearts instead of canvases! I wept. Such a simple revelation. So profound. And I am grateful. There is always enough time for God's purposes for us to be accomplished if we are listening. I'm not done painting, this is only a blink of an eye in eternity.
These are very traditional United Methodist Churches, in picturesque white buildings with lovely stained glass windows and truly worn (but well kept) wooden pews. Each has a cemetery with all the beloved who have gone on before us snuggled up right beside the church. These aren't Charismatic folks... yet. My acts of worship are conformed to theirs, and my dancing and prayer language are done silently in my heart or at home. I get lost in worship here. I find I quite often stand at the back of the mown portion of the Parsonage property, next to my first compost pile, and with sun and wind on my face, thank God for bringing us here. I soak in His affirmation. We are loved, and we love these precious ones. Our circumstances may look diminished to those whose standards are only material. It doesn't matter. He has freed me from that. As I stand at the edge of that harvested cornfield and watch the sky turn salmon and baby pink and dusky indigo, I know that Holy Spirit is using my life in Christ to adorn the hearts of other believers with new delight in God, a new and deeper relationship with His Son Jesus, and the gentle lapping of the water of Holy Spirit like warm ocean water at their bare toes. And like delighted children, they are laughing.
It makes it ok to be worshipping Him in the garden, in Holy Spirit, alone.
