We’ve been practicing a lot of creative worship through singing new songs, painting, drawing, playing instruments, dancing, writing, etc. Exploring new ways to give God praise and glory, exploring new ways to sit in communion with our Father. It’s uncomfortable at first, you fumble around for a minute, but then you unlock new a precious moments with God. It’s sweet, it’s intimate, it’s vulnerable, it’s powerful. When we started our creative worship session, I initially thought I was going to paint, but I heard God ask me to start writing. I had no idea what I was going to say but then He gave me words to say and visions to describe. So I wrote. And I wrote and wrote until I ran out of time. I would love to share what was written that night.
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In the dry season, in the desert, in the wandering until my feet hurt. In the moments of silence where my doubts are deafening. I feel a gentle wind pushing me towards divine reckoning.
I don’t see my footprints anymore behind me, this wind erases each step. I feel the wind on all sides of me. It guides, pushes and pulls me forward. It’s not too strong to make me afraid, but it’s strong enough to demand my attention, I can’t ignore this wind anymore. This wind never stops, even when I do, it seems like this wind is blowing me closer to the sun.
It’s bright, this sun. It’s overwhelming. I can’t look directly at it, but I know I want to be as close as possible. I hide my face as I get closer but the wind wind whispers to me “show your face, feel the warmth”. So I do. I lift my face to the sun, and I feel it. Far too bright to behold, but I am overcome with feelings that I can’t attach words to. It’s so far away, how can I FEEL the sun? I feel it shining on me, it’s so warm. How do I feel this? Light cannot be held or touched, so what do I feel now? What is this sun? What is this wind? Why do they both effect me so much? What’s happening to my footprints? Where do they go?
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I see butterflies. Hundreds, thousands, millions of butterflies. They are brilliant yellow, audacious orange, electric blue and royal purple. Up close, it looks like their wings are fashioned in gold lining. The butterflies begin to swarm and fly in circles around me, they fly faster and faster and suddenly I am in the center of a tornado that is destroying nothing. The tornado boasts of colors of dawn and dusk, sunrise and sunset, all at once. I’m captivated, struck in awe of what my eyes behold. The butterflies re-form into a huge cloud in the sky. Before I know it, they plunge. One by one, almost in a single jet stream, the dive straight into my chest. Each butterfly possessing its own emotion. I am filled with peace and joy and a new kind of fear, not a crippling fear, but it actually feels safe. I can’t explain it. I feel a lightness, almost like all of the butterflies in me decided to fly to the treetops at the same time. I want to laugh and sing and dance and cry. Wait, cry? Yes, one eye cries happy tears, and another cries sad tears, sorrowful tears. But I don’t feel sad or sorrow for myself, this feeling isn’t mine.
Wind, I don’t understand, who’s tears are these? Sun, I don’t understand, who do I weep for? Will you tell me?
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When I clear my eyes and look around, I see a river, except this river isn’t touching the earth. Gravity can’t pull it down. This river floats and I see it flowing and moving in every direction, it’s connected through people. For some people, the river flows mightily through them, and their river connects to many other people. Some people have a smaller river connecting to only a few others. I see some people that the river doesn’t flow through to others, it just stops with them. I sit and observe this. I’m in awe of the people who’s river connects to many, my heart longs for that too. It makes me wonder. I look closer, and I see that people have butterflies too! Butterflies and a river! A lot of people have a river, but no butterflies. Some people have butterflies, but no river. Many seek the river, and many avoid getting too close.
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Sun, wind, what is this river and who gets it? I see people, their hearts are dried up, parched. I see their need. I know their throats are dry, I recognize muteness of a thirsty voice. I remember crying out and making no sound. I don’t understand why I get to have this river. I don’t remember doing anything special to receive the butterflies. Who am I? Why do people that have the river, not seek the butterflies? Don’t they know they can have both? The river saved me, the butterflies changed me. Why do some keep the river and butterflies to themselves when their neighbors are in a drought and heavy? The river is right there!! It’s free!! Why does nobody tell them? I think people think someone else will tell them. It makes me cry when I see it, I recognize that feeling of sorrow. This is the grief I felt long ago, this is the sorrow that wasn’t my own. People desperately need the river and the butterflies.
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Who am I, Sun? What have I done to receive this, Wind? How do we get the river and butterflies to the dry places?
