It could have been the same day that Dumbo was dramatically rescued, it could have been the next day–time when you are only three is a very squishy, fluid thing–but I do remember that we were still in the land of potatoes.
My cousin brought me into her big-girl bedroom with the sloping, wallpapered ceiling and jutting windows, and plopped me on the bed. She proceeded to enchant me with wonderful big-girl things like feather boas and a pile of colorful scarves. The main thing I remember is the sparkles. Ohhhh the sparkles! The silver threads ran in shining parallels through the dark blue, floating scarf and I was captivated.
Maybe she was feeling generous, or maybe she was cleaning out her closet. Whatever the reason, I found myself driving back to Texas with the most beautiful, shimmering bit of fabric I’d ever seen.
It was so light and thin. If you dropped it, it would hesitate, rippling and listing to one side on the way down.
This made it perfect for dancing.
The church we attended at the time was a place where worship meant dance and movement and joyful celebration. Women would bring tambourines trailing with colored ribbons and dance their love for Jesus in the aisles while the whole congregation raised their arms and sang that God would soon crush Satan under our feet.
Even at age three, I understood the adults’ enthusiasm. Of course the joy of being loved by God would bubble up and flow out of thumping feet and swaying arms. How could it not? I would pull out the dark blue scarf, grasp the corners in my hands, and twirl to the rhythm of the tambourines with the women.
But at home, away from the crowd of shouting, dancing adults, there were even sweeter times.
I remember the afternoon sun slanting through the window in wavering squares on the overstuffed couch. I was alone in the front room, absentmindedly doing a balance walk along the back frame of the couch while the scarf trailed behind me, capelike. As I walked back and forth in the sunshine squares, I sang to Jesus.
I love you Lord
and I lift my voice
to worship you
O my soul, rejoice
Take joy my King
in what you hear
let it be a sweet, sweet sound
in your ear.
Over and over I sang. This Jesus was wonderful. He loved me, and I loved him back with all that was in my tiny-girl heart. I could picture Him smiling at me in my cape as I sang for him, so I sang those words again and again.
What is your first memory of God, or of worship? Is there a worship song that has always meant a lot to you? Please share in the comments!
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