This morning has been a morning flooded with memories.
Memories of a person I used to be, a person I’ve grown out of. Today—windows
down and radio up—I made my way home from work/church (what should I call it
now?) the song “Better is One Day” came on the radio. I smirked as I remembered
the history I have with that song. Maybe you have history with a song, too.
Stories should start at the beginning. To set the stage, in
summer 2008 at the age of 20, I volunteered and was chosen to be a short-term
building missionary with Casas por Cristo. After 2 weeks of
on-the-site/on-the-sand-dunes training, my first team arrived in El Paso, Texas
at 6 AM to meet their intern (me) and cross the border into Juarez, Mexico to
build a house in 6 days for a family in poverty. After about 10 minutes of
small talk and introductions, a teenage boy in the group raised his hand and
said,
“So when are we gonna meet our building intern?”
Slightly deflated [but faking unaffected], I answered, “You
just did!”
Puzzled but honest, he replied, “No, I mean the guy who’s
going to lead us on our build this week.”
”…Yep, that’s me.” [insert deflating balloon sound here]
The poor kid didn’t know that my confidence was already
hanging on by a thread. I had tried to harness the energy of my terror into
excitement that morning. I had avoided sharing that fact that they were, in
fact, my first solo build. I was pretending I wasn’t 30 years younger than most
the adult chaperones in the group. I had made sure I looked the part in my tool
belt and work boots. [Full disclosure: I had taken sandpaper to them the night
before so I didn’t look like I had escaped the pages of a Home Depot ad]. I had
traced the route we would take into the unmarked streets of Mexico and
recounted the turns and roundabouts over and over in my mind. I had checked my
radio’s battery at least 20 times.
That kid’s comment still took me from confident to
incompetent in 2 seconds flat.
When it was time to leave I debriefed the drivers of the
two, 16-passenger vans on border crossing, we were on our way. As I walked
ahead to my truck, climbed up into the leather bench seat and slammed the
rusting door closed, the tears came instantaneously. As I pulled the shifter
down to ‘Drive’ I could barely see. I was terrified. I was convinced I was
going to get lost, forget the fiber in the concrete mixture, not be able to
translate correctly, forget how to wire the ceiling fan, and eventually die
somewhere in the dunes of Juarez with all of my unsuspecting team members.
As I turned out of the lot my hand groped its way to the
radio knob and I turned it on to drown the noise of my sobs. As I adjusted the
volume the song “Better is One Day” began playing and I immediately felt a
peace and outpouring of the Holy Spirit on my physical body. My crying stopped.
And in that moment I was convinced that God somehow lived in that song. [side note: I wired the fan perfectly and no one died
in Juarez that week]
For years afterward (and many times that same summer)
whenever I heard that song I was convinced God was present with me. If that
song was playing, then He was watching and listening. Guaranteed.
That was 4 years ago and I haven’t thought of that song in a
long time. In those four years I’ve grown leaps and bounds in my faith and I can’t
identify with my former self anymore; that girl absolutely convinced God lived
in a song. In that song.
When I heard it this afternoon, I smirked and had a thought
conversation with the ever-present, omniscient Lord….
Him: “Remember when you thought I was ONLY with you when
this song was playing?”
Me: nervous laughter, “Yeah. That seems pretty superstitious looking back.”
Him: “Well, I am quite pleased we get to hang out more often, now.”
Me: “Me too."
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