We slide into the pew behind friends and one extra who I happen to know is one of our congregation's missionaries.
We're in time for all the singing. I sing loudly. Sometimes I sing harmony if I can.
After one song, the missionary turns back to look at me. I give a sheepish smile. I wonder if I was singing too loudly?
Oh well. I love to sing loudly in church.
At the passing of the peace, we introduce ourselves.
"You sing so beautifully. Are you a professional?"
Oh my, that is hilarious.
"Oh no, I've done a bit of singing in the past, but I don't sing much these days," as I gesture to my four beauties (for whom I gave up singing very much).
"Well, I was wondering if you had an album! I would buy it!"
Things are getting funnier by the minute.
I ask how we can pray for him and his family.
"Oh my, well, how much time do you have?"
He asks prayers for strength, endurance, perseverance as they serve in a land dying of thirst for God's saving water.
I say we'll pray.
After the sermon I sing loudly again.
As we greet again at the end of service, he says to me "Listening to you was worth the price of admission! Let me know when you have a recording."
I am touched by the compliments. But much, much more, I am touched by the Lord's sweet compassion and weaving together of the body.
I have the sense that He has somehow used a gift He gave me to refresh another soul. In the weekly singing of hymns and songs (loudly), He is there. He is ministering. He is caring for His own. He let me serve in a small, small way our missionary.
It almost seems like nothing, like there is no story here. Yet I sense He was and is at work, generously using us for each other. Will we let Him?