The Sylvr Pen

And today I sing silent.

I move my Bible and my hymnal and my box of verses and myself to my bedroom prayer spot to flee the rooster’s hallelujahs that come right up to my left ear through the  north-side study window facing open coop, where Cocky-Locky makes his presence very known, and my quiet time… not quiet.

And I sit

and a song swells in my soul,

and my soul begins to sing it.

But not my mouth—

because just below me, underneath a floor-cum-ceiling, on library sofa, sits my husband—with his verses and his Bible. And my froggy, crackling allergy-time joyful noise will make his quiet time… not quiet.

And a picture rises in my mind, one I saw some time ago somewhere on film: of persecuted Christians—underground-gathered amid the light and day and busy doings all around outside their courtyard wall—singing out their hearts together… but not their vocal chords.

Joyful faces, mouthing words in whole-souled unison.

But silent.

It isn’t the voice God hears, but the soul.

The passion-moved soul can barely restrain the swelling voice inside—unless its outward form will crackle, irritate, and confound someone else’s heartful worship. Or when danger hangs a noose outside the door. Or when the voice won’t work, goes dumb disabled, but the soul sings on.

So what do I sing? What pours from my heart’s core, ascends as sacred incense?

“Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to Thee, how great Thou art! How great Thou art!”

Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord. -Ephesians 5:19 KJV

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Related posts you might like to read:

Songs in the Night, Overheard!

“…To Sing Thy Grace…”

And to Sit Silent

Another day’s treasure: one ruby gem.

Small, no bigger than an inch. Yet sparkling sweet, gleaming radiant. Vibrant in the mouth, rich on the tongue.  Drop of fruit borne from bed of straw and dirt, and garden shadows.

But the treasure lies not in its gem-likeness, nor its marvel of taste, nor even its rareness now, spring bearer out of season—

but in the heart that bent the back and reached the hand to procure the scarlet gift…

that sent the feet to bring the body, bring the hand that held the droplet red, all the way through garden and out, and along the stony path..

and into the house…

and up the stairs…

and through the door I’d even closed…

to hold before me, that I might rejoice in its beauty, might savor the wonder of its springtime in waning summer, that the bearer might enjoy my joy.

Such is the treasure of the love of God.

And that love, shed abroad in our hearts, makes us do such things.What if the bearer had tripped and fallen…?

I rethink this giving, recasting characters for the script, and writing in disaster.

The bearer is a little girl, heart brim-full of love for Daddy, of eager delight to take him the pleasure and the savoring, that she might enjoy his enjoyment.

And in her eagerness, she runs. And in her running she trips and falls, and the gift flies out and under her fall, crushed on her dress, once white.

Smashed gift, stained girl, weeping grievous wail at failing to deliver this pleasure to her so-loved father.

What does the good father feel? What does he do, but gather the shards of her shattered joy, and her little person, into the arms of his own love? And does he count the love gift lost, or still received, just as dear and precious? For was the gift the perfection of the run, or the product in the hand, or even the exhaustion of the effort—or was it the love that propelled the giving and the running?

For one who trips and smashes and weeps too much, what a comforting knowledge, of the loving Father, and of the value of gifts I thought I ruined in the stumbling, but didn’t after all!

An August goal: Seek the unique treasure in each day. 

I have already found a chestful…

-In wee small hours, my own groan wakes me as position shift brings on the pain once more, and I feel Husband’s hand come warm upon my upper back exactly where it hurts (how does he know?), soothing heat spread flat like healing heat pad—and his darkness-quiet voice: “Did you get any sleep?” Comfort comes in touch, and even more in knowing someone cares.

-In an early dawning, I pull back a window drape, and a surprise of fog sheet blocking off expected panorama makes me gasp. But “Oh, I like it,” my mouth voices—to my God, the air, whoever might be near to hear—as I realize: A soft sequestering this is—not stifling, but instead a comfort hug, a snuggle-down in cozy den away from world’s wide vista. Embraced by God, drawn near to life at hand, to see the short view, the soft close-up of life, the picture beautiful, my heart sings soft but strong.

-Two other days: Unknowing messengers of God, two different friends not seen in weeks, bear  timely words, unaware of how they answered questions, as well as prayers, spoken only to the silent air and the God Who fills it.

-But so often, the unique and finest treasure of the day has been a little bit of scripture verse, or sermon phrase, leaping off a page or screen into my heart to stir it new to understanding—

touching, spot on, the heart part needing warm hand laid,

comfort-embracing, drawing aside to close-up view of sweet truth,

to soothe, give apt answer, and affirm.

More treasure tomorrow…

Meanwhile, what unique treasure do you find in today?

Sometimes, like this morning, I don’t sing.

I just sit silent.

There’s where I hear His voice, feel His embrace, His breathing presence: in the silence.

All I say is, “Our Father… Father…” And the word sinks down and I feel its meanings and feel His presence wrapped gentle around me in this room.

It would be here, in any case. But only in the silence, the stopping, the ceasing from words and plans and actions, can I sense it, it’s so delicate a thing to detect and know.

It does require focus. And my thoughts were bounding everywhere. And the focus I took was those first words: “Our Father, Who art in Heaven.” And the name Father spoke alone to my heart, reached in and took kind hold of its attention, and I could not speak or sing, but only think, and know, and realize His Father presence… and let the gratitude seed in and root and grow here in these minutes.

And that is all that’s needed.

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Another rare morning when I sit and wait for coffee brewing and push the kitchen radio button.

5:10 AM. I will see if I might find a jumpstart for my worship…

Oh. The teacher’s quoting “when the morning stars sang together” (Job 38:4,7), reckoning them angels at creation

—who also chorus praise before the Revelation throne (Rev 7:11-12).

In his survey of Psalms the book, he explains the Hebrew word means songs sung to instrument accompaniment.

Singing at Alpha (Job 38:7; Rev 1:8),

praise-chorusing at Omega (Rev 19:5-7; 22:13),

songs at the center of Inspired Word…

…

So he asks: How often, lately, have you sung to God, other than at church?

My heart delights to answer: “Lately? Everyday!” Yes, lately, everyday.

It is a new thing. Not coerced by discipline—though I have taken thought to interweave song in my worship-pausing “hours.” Not forced, but rising free from heart filled full. Not at daybreak only, but here, amid the day things, and there, even in the heart of night.

We were made to sing—and given such resources for it! Birds’ potential repertoire in contrast shrinks so small. Ours: a range of pitch and tone and volume, from solemn deep to laughter-dizzy high; from tempo dirge-like to clapping-slapping joy-dance flamingly alive. And such a lexicon of praise to choose from, so many permutations of words and notes and time…

…

And here I have another holy “happenstance:”

As I sat in yesterday’s early preserve of quiet, Husband came and knocked on my study door—saying, in voice so earnest, “I need help!” that I pictured mud-wading or weight-lifting emergency.

“Now?” I asked.

“What’s the hymn with “prone to wander, Lord I feel it…”?

What desire he had to remember it—like mine to sing those songs!

I smiled. I’d just sung that lately, when contemplating Psalm 119:35-37.

I’d have to think…

“Give me a minute,” I answered, and started singing phrases, humming the song, piecing the fragments of melody with my remembrance till it came: “Come Thou, Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.”

How fitting to my Now, that yesterday conversation—and my continued singing later then, with “coincidental” praying of the Psalm! How in sync, all that, with the little lesson segment I “just happened” on while coffee brewed this morning—and with yesterday’s continued hymn words: “…Streams of mercy never ceasing call for songs of loudest praise.”

And the song goes on. “Teach me some melodious sonnet sung by flaming tongues above…” And I have just read Psalm 42, whose passion stirs my own heart, always gives me gratitude when I read verse eight (Ps 42:8), revealing His song as my prayer to “the God of my life.”

So my heart goes dancing, rejoicing at God’s weavings, weaving together my little moments with His great speakings and insights from here-and-there fragments in my days.

…

Amazing God of my life, tune my heart to sing Thy grace—and to hear Thy voice when it speaks in these quiet ways.

…

Deep gratitude: for early-morning treasure.

…

To do today:

Read Psalm 42. Or Psalm 119:33-40. And sing!

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