It beckoned to me when I first saw it. My students had just finished performing music at a retirement home near their school. After their performance, a friendly resident took me by the hand to show me around the building.
"This is where we have chapel every Thursday afternoon at 1:30," she commented, as she flipped on the light switch in the upstairs room.
"Ohhh," I breathed. "It's beautiful."
It was beautiful. Small, but quaint and inviting, with a communion table and beautiful stained glass window of a cross that still appeared triumphant.
I breathed in its quiet beauty as she described to me how every Thursday the residents gather for a 45-minute service that included a couple of hymns, a sermon, and communion for everyone in the room. No set denomination. No man-made rules or expectations. Just a service for all who accepted the invitation to come.
"Sometimes we have guests in the community come in to sing special music or preach the sermon," she continued. And my heart began to beat a little faster in my chest. I could do this. I could help here, a firm voice inside me declared.
A few months passed---busy with work, busy with friends, family, and a relationship. But the memory of that small room with the stained glass window continued pulling on my heart and mind. And sometimes ideas pull on me, and pull on me, and pull on me....until I finally accept that perhaps God is asking something of me, and I step out of my comfort zone and take the risk, wondering if I am really obeying God or behaving like a crazy fool by attempting something that might not even make a difference or I may not even be qualified for anyway.
After a couple emails and phone calls, which were met with eager responses, I visited that small chapel service one Thursday afternoon simply to see what it was like. I met and talked to lots of folks who greeted me with warm, friendly welcomes, then afterwards talked to the chaplain, whose words implied that he hungrily desired for more of the community to get involved in their services---for more people to come and perform special music or speak the messages. Soon I had signed up to come on the third Thursday of each month. Since the piano was in the corner of the room with the back to the congregation, and was played by one of the residents whom I could tell put a lot of preparation and joy into playing it, I decided to use my guitar instead on the songs she didn't play on. Since the chaplain is not very comfortable leading the singing, I also laughed and answered "yes" when he asked in a whisper if I would take over that job of leading the congregational hymns, as well.
Sometimes those Thursdays roll around and, as much as I have prepared and eagerly anticipated going, I may feel tired from the week or distracted by life. But afterward, I always leave with a sense of peace. I always feel a bit of fulfillment at releasing some of myself to worship through a different musical outlet. Since "piano" is my daily job---either teaching it or accompanying dance classes at the local campus---I often yearn to release some self-expression through other musical avenues---either through a different instrument or through my voice. And even being given the task of selecting the songs---choosing a hymn for them to sing along with, then choosing a song of any style to sing during communion---gives me a freedom and sincere desire to thoughtfully select music I think will be meaningful---a role I haven't often gotten to fill as a musician.
But I hope the fulfillment is not mine alone. I hope somehow the music adds to their worship and encourages the residents. Sometimes I---along with most of the human population---easily wonder if my efforts don't add up to much.
Tonight I sat in the bathtub, trying to relax with only the light of candles, but the day-to-day weariness of life, stress, fatigue, hurtful memories, and future fears consumed me until my candlelit bathtub turned into my sanctuary of weeping. Sobbing tears mingled with my bathwater until I finally reached that place of having cried so much that the grieving at least left me with a fatigue that hopefully might lull me into a more peaceful sleep tonight.
But before heading to bed, I picked up my guitar and the two songs I had already selected for next month's service and clumsily played through them, until their peace stole over me. My mind wondered if God could really use a broken girl---one who sometimes feels too scarred by life to be considered worth the trouble, one who secretly cries in the bathtub when her heart breaks from wounds that still hurt---to actually make any kind of difference at even a small, obscure chapel.
But I remembered leaving the service last week; they gave me a gift of a daily devotional book and a worship cd to show their appreciation. A kind, older lady with twinkling eyes pinched my cheeks as if I were five years old and said, "How could I ever forget this sweet smile."
And I thought---hoped---that even when I feel spent and broken,
or that even when I'm obeying God in ways so tiny they seem insignificant,
perhaps,
hopefully,
He is still using me.
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