It’s a rundown basketball court … splintered backboards and nets that sag from rusted rims. Rough cracked concrete encased in the two sides of the stone wall where weeds have taken root, threatening to take over. The other sides are surrounded by the grass that hasn’t seen a blade since before this past winter. The white puff ball weeds dance in a sea of green, poised like the ballerinas who wait for their cue to glide across the floor. The most gentle breeze will cue nature’s ballerinas to dance effortlessly through the air, seeds spreading for the newest cast to sprout up and continue the dance near and afar.
We sit here, a cast of our own. Sitting on the stone wall, standing with eyes closed, sitting cross legged on the cracked concrete … singing to the maker of sunsets and scenery. The guitars play in harmony; strumming chords accompany the air keyboard and the voices of the women on the weathered yellow bench. The camera tries to capture the essence of our worship, the lens zooming in, hopefully longing to store just a glimpse of the Spirit moving on the memory card inside the fancy Canon. Colored pens and pencils are laid out … journals are open … the Spirit prompts our creativity. Everyone catching worship in their own way … inviting Abba to show up, and watching as He paints the sky with shades of blue, orange, pink, and purple … His perfect backdrop to the rolling hills He so carefully placed in the distance.
Lord, nothing we have done and nothing we will ever do will make us deserving of this blessing … this sunset and this scenery may be gone tomorrow, but for today … Abba has put us amidst His masterpiece … so we find ourselves in awe as we sing to the maker of sunsets and scenery on a slab of concrete in Romania.
