Once upon a time I looked over at the woman raising her hands in congregational worship and I envied her.
Oh how the lyrics touched my soul, and the tears would stream down my face. But , I wouldn’t dare raise my hands.
I had heard too many preachers, and church people criticizing those “attention hogs”, rebuking them for disrupting the service.
I couldn’t even fathom the freedom it must have felt to not only raise my soul, heart, but also my hand to God while the family of God praised Him.
I longed for it. I grieved for it. When I saw women like the lady beside me in church, I never thought they looked prideful or boastful .
They seemed to be pouring themselves out to God, alone in a space where it was only them and the Father. I longed to go to that place.
But, I was so bound in chains to the image of a perfect and reverently serious church lady that my hands stayed by my side. My fists were often clenched tight in pain, to remind myself “ don’t you dare raise your hand , it’s bad enough that you allow your face to be expressive during song.”
Every service in my early 20’s was a tight rope of agony and joy.
Joy , because I genuinely loved going to church, singing, and listening to the sermons. I lived for it. And agony because I was a perfectionist and a people pleaser of the worst degree. I had no clue how to discern between the Bible and man’s preferences. If I’m honest , once I did know the difference, I chose man’s preference over God’s Word. Simply because, man praised me for it. I lived for every compliment. I served for it, and would willingly torture my mind and personality so that my church surroundings would look at me and say “ Such a good girl!” .
How twisted my heart was! Eventually, I became extremely double minded. This is no way to live a life of faith. And it brought me to a broken place that morning envying the woman singing with a smile, abandoned to worship and hands raised.
Eventually, I sat next to her in choir.
Dear Lesa. She and I became fast friends. She saw the broken behavior of codependency, and lead me out of my twisted thinking by her example.
Over our time singing together my fists were no longer clenched , and eventually I worshipped with my hands at my side , but the palms gently turned up. The FREEDOM I felt!!!
It was as if floodgates had opened. I no longer cared so much of what others were thinking. I focused on my Savior and sang my heart out.
Then one day we took a trip . Our church had a ladies retreat. During this time God used Lesa as she taught us a valuable lesson about our self righteousness and God’s grace. I still have the craft we made together that day.
Before we left the retreat, we made our way to the beach to enjoy it one last time. There, as the Pacific Northwest clouds gathered, and the waters crashed, Lesa and I sang “ Behold Our God” , and for the first time in genuine worship, without worry…. I lifted my free arm, and held it out to Jesus.
Someone snapped a picture. One that I will always treasure.
This morning, I stood beside my husband, and I raised my hands unapologetically as we sang .
Behold our God, seated on His throne
Come let us adore Him
Behold our King, nothing can compare
Come let us adore Him
The tears streamed down my face. I thought of Lesa. How she no longer sings in the choir at church with her expressive face and hands lifted. But rather, in the court of her Maker, face to face with her Redeemer, beholding her Yahweh, seated on His throne, adoring Him.
I will miss my friend Lesa, but I will see her again. And we will behold our God together.
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