A God-sized ass-kicking

I figure that if you don't read this post after that title, either a) you don't like God, with some possibly excellent reasons; b) you think the word ass is provocative, which unfortunately it is not in our house, or c) I have lost all ability to switch it up on you and surprise you, dear reader. Probably c. Oh well.

To the rest of you... this story is a little more personal than some. Just so you know. I include this picture of Judah just because he won't appear at all in the story elsewise, and he's getting so cute and walking everywhere that I feel he needs a little shoutout.

Over the past couple of months I have gone from feeling bulletproof to downright mortal. Though I had a relatively rough oh, first fifteen years (my own fault), once I hit high school I've felt pretty good about myself. Probably too good. When you drink Mountain Dew instead of water while you run around a soccer field for ninety minutes, you pretty much have to think you're bulletproof. It wasn't until well after I got out of high school that I realized just how dangerous that was. Thankfully, no heart attacks resulted as a consequence.

Lately, though, I have been a regular hypochondriac. I thought I was having heart palpitations daily for about two months, then quit drinking six cups of caffeine a day and realized I actually might have been having them, but I still felt the same way afterwards-- fearful, like I never knew what was coming.

It got to a point where I was actually concerned enough to go get a physical and have some bloodwork done. I'd been feeling like crap for a couple of weeks and the day of I had to fast for 12 hours, so I was already feeling absolutely awful, convinced that I had inherited the family diabetic gene, but lo and behold-- nothing. My bloodwork was basically unremarkable.

Fast forward to 6pm on a Wednesday night-- I was home with the boys, having weird flutterings again and just feeling like if I was going to die, now would be really inconvenient, if not embarrassing. I can just imagine my poor neighbor having to tell the police, "we finally thought something might be wrong after the boys were screaming for two hours straight and he hadn't quieted them at all..." etc. Enter Elijah. Strumming his horribly out-of-tune guitar and looking impish, he demanded I sing "Days of Elijah." If you haven't heard LJ sing "Days of Elijah," you clearly haven't been to our house. The original recording is here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4wl0VFgpjY&feature=fvst

It was as I sang that song that the thought popped into my head, and not of my own volition. "What if I don't have to live life this way?" What if, like it says in 1st John 4:16b-19,

God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them. ¹⁷ This is how love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment: In this world we are like Jesus. ¹⁸ There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. ¹⁹ We love because he first loved us.

What if that were true? And what if I acted like it were true instead of just saying that I believed it? (Because I do that a lot-- say I believe something but not really act on it. It's actually one of my more annoying qualities. You need a list of the others, ask the Queen ;) And I was blessed to have a chance to believe, because these stupid heart things either were in my head and I couldn't get them out or something was really a little bit off.

So I started singing. Really, anything that I could remember from my childhood. Then I borrowed the guitar from Elijah and kept singing. Then I started singing falsetto, because my real voice was starting to crack. And all of a sudden, it was as if the crap in my chest was blown away-- it just left. I don't think that I noticed, honestly-- I was too busy singing. I think that I realized I might be up to something a little different when Elijah started getting REALLY into it and flashing all the lights in our kitchen like it was a dance rave, something he's never done. I just grinned and kept singing-- I hadn't felt this good in years. Literally, probably two or three years. And I just kept singing. Finally, a little after seven, I thought that even though I could probably sing until 9, Judah was looking pretty droopy-eyed. So I quit for ten minutes and put him back to bed... and after that we hummed more than sang, because he's the lightest sleeper I've ever known.

I don't think the memory will leave me for quite some time, though. Smashing away on a tuneless guitar with Elijah running back and forth putting the kitchen "strobe lights" on, the power of God came down... and I can't help but think that it all started with Elijah. Sometimes all it takes to move mountains is the simple prayers of children through their songs.

Have a wonderful night!!