Sunday. Your day.
Rise and Shine. That's exactly what I did and also went to church there.
Rise and Shine Ministries.
In a Zambian school room, blue, white, and worn, with all the windows open I had a unique and very initmate time to worship.
To my Father, from my journal:
"Many hours with little English and I knew no other time I've spent in church in Zambia connected me more to your heart.
I've never held you or been able to touch you with my praises.
Today you saw me, she saw me.
A little lady no more than four.
As she entered the room, down the aisle she went.
She saw me and continued to her pew, stumbling in awe backwards down the row.
She couldn't take her eyes off me.
Little by little, she inched closer, hoping that I didn't notice.
Maybe she could touch me without catching my eye.
And she did.
A little hand on my leg, a tiny face straing up at me.
I didn't hesitate to find out if she wanted to be held, I just picked her up.
I've missed out on so much by hesitation.
Halleluia is the same in every language. And I sang.
Her little cheek pressed hard against mine.
Her eyelashes kissing my face.
Her tiny fingers clasped in mine.
You met me in worship. On a day that belongs to you. You saw me, were captivated by me, and were drawn to me. You rested in my arms while I sang to you.