A few weeks ago one Sunday I learned a lot. Not from the sermon. I learned a lot from my son.
A while ago I wrote about worship, about how we were made for worship. My children were made for worship. There is a beauty and an innocence in their hearts that is convicting. They have no agendas. They don’t care if the music is too loud or too soft. They have no concerns about their pitch. They only know freedom to be who God created them to be. Worshippers.
Now that Asher is an avid reader, he loves reading and singing in church. And he doesn’t complain (well, sometimes he complains about how long we have to stand). All he knows is that he’s going to sing and worship. He doesn’t complain about song choice. He isn’t distracted by poor sound mixing or messy notes. He isn’t affected by “lack of energy” or personal preference.
He. just. worships.
And a few weeks ago on that Sunday when he sang every song at the top of his lungs looking back and forth between Brian and me and grinning widely, it was the best Sunday I can remember (and there were a lot of songs that were not my personal preference). I was able to freely worship. Why?
Because, once again, my son taught me how.
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