Last Sunday I was the musician leading the congregation. This is a blessing for me and I had prepared by picking songs, inviting two other musicians, and had arrived in plenty of time for a sound check and practice. The three of us were almost done going through the playlist when Ben came barrelling into
the room.
Let me explain. Ben is often the first one dressed on Sunday mornings, looking sharp in his dark pants and matching vest with a pomegranate red shirt. He looks forward to church and is angry if we ever miss it.
But on this particular morning he had a bodily malfunction and came in bellowing. I set down my guitar and asked what had happened. When
he told me there was no possibility of ignoring him. John was preaching for another service, so I could not beg for help. I had to drive him home to change clothes.
Grabbing the keys I shuffled Ben to the car, trying to calm him down. He cleaned up in record time and we hussled back to church.
But I was rattled. I like to be calm in order to
provide a worshipful sphere, and a mad dash home cost me that calm.
When it was time for the first song, words did come out of my mouth, and my fingers did jump all over the fretboard. But my concentration was full of holes, like Swiss cheese. The sheet music in front of me saved the day.
Fortunately decades of playing guitar filled the gaps
in my serenity. My eyes looked down and saw chord names. My hands followed orders and played them. By the third song my breathing had evened out, and I could feel the music rather than play by rote.
There are times in marriage when our participation level has been stripped of either enjoyment or spunk. When the factors of naughty children, jobs, a broken dishwasher and an aching back all collide it can be hard to keep
functioning.
But there is a script.
Do the laundry. Listen before speaking. Breathe. Express appreciation.
Having it written down can be a Godsend when common sense flies out the window. It can be the
means to getting back to feeling the love.
