Speechless.

Having been raised in a Southern Baptist family, I’m no stranger to the rhythmic chord progressions of the piano and organ weaving together and creating that nostalgic, “church” sound. Hallelujahs and amens echo through the woodwork of the building, spilling into the outer halls and escaping from the steeple. With voices raised, each member of the congregation sings to the best of his or her ability, making their own “joyful noise unto the Lord.”

As I’ve aged though, I’ve witnessed a gradual departure from the traditional praise and worship of my childhood. Nowadays, especially in my church, we take part in a more contemporary, almost mainstream worship service. Drawing from modern-day pop and rock genres, our music is the evolved product of a new generation. The Strings of a fully-assembled orchestra rise and fall into the resounding, steady tones of the Brass and Woodwind sections, and together, they resuscitate those venerable hymns of yesteryear, restoring them to their former power and glory.

This, I was sure, was the epitome of music, the epitome of praise. Nothing could convey the raw emotion of those songs better than a room full of singing Christian believers, backed by an impressive set of instruments, right?

Actually, no…I was proven wrong.

You see, near the front of our auditorium is a seating area reserved for the hearing impaired. From there, they are able to easily view an interpreter who signs the sermon to them. The interpreter is usually very animated, and naturally, the quiet setting of a Sunday morning preaching makes it almost impossible for me to not occasionally focus on him or her. But recently, I noticed that the interpreter signs throughout our song service as well. Every word of every hymn is expressed through the flowing motion of the interpreter's hands and, even more incredible, expressed through each of the deaf people in the pews.

I watched, literally, speechless as they moved so, so gracefully through the motions of Amazing Grace My Chains are Gone. The words of the hymns coming alive in and through their bodies.

Palms flat, hands raised high, and fingers wavering, I watched a younger woman close her eyes and slowly lower her arms pulling them in close to her chest. She repeated that motion, matching each repetition of the words, “Unending love, amazing grace.”

Despite the glittering orchestra playing on stage and the great choir of voices filling the place, her sign language was the loudest and most beautiful praise I’d ever witnessed. I felt ashamed. How could I harbor some selfish buried resentment for the things I didn't have when this woman lacks so much and yet holds nothing back?

Fighting back tears, I thought to myself: “THAT is worship.” 

I was inspired and humbled and challenged all at once to be like that woman, to not focus on what I don’t have, but to love and praise God with everything I do have, all of me.

It's the little stuff.

My youngest brother absolutely loves to make me laugh, and really, I love that he loves to make me laugh.

If he can tell a joke or make an awkward facial expression that will get as much as a snicker out of me, he will drive it into the ground. I mean, he'll use it NON-FREAKING-STOP until I make a point to inform him that he has not only exhausted all humor surrounding said joke/face, but also, continued use of said joke/face is now legally punishable by death. When this occurs, he returns to his drawing board once again to concoct his next comedic triumph.

Currently? The phrase is "horse butt."

No, there's nothing else to it. No punchline, guy walks into a bar, nothing. Just those two words.

How this came about is kind of odd, but basically, it happened while we were on our way back from church one morning (as do all great stories). He and I were discussing some deeply spiritual, biblical stuff I'm sure, like whether Sampson could beat Batman in a fight, when he stops in mid-sentence, points and says, "Horse butt." And turning around, I see exactly that...a horse's butt hanging out the side of a cattle trailer, just outside my window. Now, I'm not sure why I found it hilarious, but at the time, it was. I guess you just had to have been there.

And as predicted, it's his new catch phrase.

Slowly creeping around the corner into my room. Horse butt.

Sneaking up behind me while I'm watching TV. Horse butt.

Leaving a little note on the keyboard of my laptop. Horse butt.

And the best yet, my parents called from California yesterday to check in while they're on vacation, when my mom says, "Oh, and your brother wanted me to say 'horse butt' for some reason."

I miss the little guy alot, so I'm gonna let it slide for now. But when he gets back, it's time to move on to the whole "punishable by death" stage.
         

Remember.

I haven't forgotten.

Initially, none of us knew what happened. A teacher from a neighboring classroom had leaned in the door and nervously motioned to Mrs. Hickey, who left in a hurry. The whole class was in groups for some sort of project. My friend, Andrea, and I were sitting in the floor, cross-legged and coloring our posterboard. That's what 4th graders are supposed to do, they color and learn the names of the presidents and play outside after lunch.

4th graders aren't supposed to stand and watch two national monuments burn to the ground on a shoddy, 19 inch television in the hallway of their elementary school. 4th graders aren't supposed to be on lockdown for three and a half hours, not truly knowing if they are safe or not. 4th graders, young children, aren't supposed to contemplate the thought of death. They aren't supposed to fear for their lives or the lives of their friends and families.

But on September 11th, 2001, they did. We did. I did.

Standing alongside my classmates, I watched, wide-eyed, as the word "terrorism" defined itself, another thing that 4th graders aren't supposed to go through. No amount of words or illustrations could fully describe the fear and confusion that gripped our nation that day. The sense of security, innate to Americans, lay waste in a pile of steel and glass. Rubble and ash, littered with the bodies of the sons and daughters of mothers and fathers, served as a brutal manifestation of just how vulnerable our country really was, how vulnerable it still is.

Some cried out to the government, others cried out to God. Some did nothing, while some gave everything. But the damage was already done, the seemingly unstoppable Red, White, and Blue was brought to its knees by two planes and a handful of evil men.

I haven't forgotten...and neither should you.