My shirts get these little holes in them, always in the same location. For three years now I have searched for the source. Is it the washing machine? My laundry basket? What? The questions remain unanswered, and it frustrates me.
It's amazing how much time I have spent chasing down the cause of these holes. They steal my concentration. When I'm supposed to be doing a dozen different tasks, half of my brain power remains on these spots of empty space.
And they leave me with a quandary. Do I wear the shirts anyway? Should I repair them first or throw the shirts away? If I threw them all away, I think I'd have nothing left to wear. It's that bad. I have repaired some of them, not well, mind you. Afterward, the shirts are left looking like they have a weird fabric flaw, a sort-of lump. I comfort myself, saying no one notices. At least, that is my hope.
How trivial is it that I am consumed by these holes? Around me are tragedies of the greatest magnitudes: a friend's young child had an organ transplant, a relative's husband needs corrective surgery, countless people (unknown to me) have lost their homes to a massive tornado. Yet here I sit, distractedly looking for holes.
Sunday morning following the sermon, my pastor announced to the congregation "a time of worship." Our band began playing beautiful music, the words from the stage floated into the air, and I closed my eyes in gratitude to think of the Father. I love to worship. I live to worship. Yet when my eyes opened just a crack, in amazement I watched people filing out. Before he could even offer the blessing he speaks each Sunday, the greater portion had left, and following the blessing, they went like a flood until only twenty or so were left.
No time for worship?
So many things consume our lives. Like me, searching for holes, all those people had allowed circumstances to become a distraction - time for lunch, pick up the children, mow the yard, take a nap. Trivial items sent them out chasing their holes. When for a few minutes, the Father asked them to stay, to enter into His presence, to sit awhile, to talk with Him.
What all had failed to see was the benefits that come from those precious moments. It's not that my words help God. He doesn't need help. No, my words help me. God is pleased with faith, and time spent in worship reminds me of who He is. It builds my faith.
He is greater. He is higher. He is more than enough. Worship places God onto the throne of my heart and myself in surrender, where I need to be. Him larger. Me smaller. No longer am I out chasing holes. Instead, I dwell with God. I am quiet and can hear His voice. I come away so much stronger than I was when I entered.
I prayed today about those holes. In a moment of forgetfulness, I actually asked God to show me what I was doing to create them. How silly, empty, and vain. I see now it doesn't matter. If ten years from now, my shirts still contain holes, perhaps they serve only to remind me of this lesson.
I think I'll stop writing now and worship. For He is great. He is mighty. He is powerful. He is holy.
Suzanne Williams Photography
Suzanne Williams is a native Floridian, wife, and mother, with a penchant for spelling anything, who happens to love photography.
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