The music moved me...I swayed.

A few years ago...quite a few years ago, now that I think about it, I served as the youth leader at the church we attended.  In some way we were introduced to Corinthian Baptist Church in Des Moines, Iowa, and were invited up to a church service during Black History Month...which is February, every year.  The congregation was predominately black.  We were the minority.

We were so excited to go and experience not only a different denomination, but a cultural difference, too.  We.were.blown.away!  The music...the music was tremendous.  Joyful.  We had not heard anything like it.  We had not ever seen anything like it.  They clapped. They swayed. They raised their hands in worship.  It was amazing.  

I've often thought of that church and how they really, really worshiped and did not have any inhibitions in doing so.  They were happy, proud, beautifully in the moment.  

Last week, my husband and I visited a new church after many years of not going to church at all.  We've missed it.  We've missed being part of a church family.  We've been participating in a weekly LIFE group at the home of friends. We were introduced to their church through these weekly group sessions.  

So, we went.  I felt at home immediately!  Greeted in the parking lot with special parking for visitors, greeted at the door, introduced to different areas of the church and handed the bulletin...all while hearing worship music wafting through the doors.  I was eager to go in.

A pretty simple layout; contemporary in design without all the typical emblems and markings of a traditional church.  On the stage was something I was not expecting to see.  Guess what it was?  A mostly black choir.  I don't know what I was expecting or if I had even given it any thought.  I was so happy!  I was so elated.  The music moved me; I felt like I was back at Corinthian Baptist Church where there was an energy and excitement and wholehearted longing to be there and worship and praise His name.  

Now, this is what is so interesting to me.  A difference between the black culture and the white culture that I am accustomed to.  What I know. One not better than the other...but, an observance.  Something I've noticed.  Something I wondered about then, many, many years ago and was reminded of it this past Sunday.  Black people move and express themselves without abandon.  White people seem to hold back.  Why is that?  I have to tell you...I was swaying right along with the best of them.  Back and forth, swaying to the music.  The white people that I saw, stood there, hands clenching the seat back in front of them; no movement.  No joyous abandon.  Why is that?

The music moved me...I swayed...the music moved me!

 

Hands...I've always had a fascination with hands.

Hands...I've always had a fascination with hands.  As an adult, I look at my hands and those of my family and I sometimes see the "genetics" of it all.  Who do my hands look like?  My cousin Tony has hands like my uncle's, who has hands like my Grandpa Herb's, his dad.  My Aunt Dorothy's hands remind me of my Grandma Grace's; her mom.  I see that my Aunt Elaine's girls hands look like hers, but hers don't look so much like Grandma Grace's; I sometimes think my hands look like my mom's, but I also think they look like my dad's side of the family.  They inspire me!

Even as a little girl, the crooked fingers of my Great Grandma Heifner and worm-like veins on my Great Grandma Breton's hands were imprinted in my mind.



Grandpa Herb and his mother,
Grandma Heifner

Gnarled and bent to the side, arthritis had Grandma Heifner's hands in it's grip.  At one time straight and feminine, just like she was.  At her death, small and delicate, just like she was.  I was much younger when Grandma Heifner passed away, so I don't remember allot about her everyday comings and goings.  She seemed old to me, even then, BUT, I do remember her hands.



Grandma Breton with
 Gr. Granddaughter Courtney



Grandma Breton's hands were narrow and long, encased with skin as delicate as an onions.  Made transparent in the aging process, it didn't take much to bump and bruise.  Even as her eyesight left her, she was able to crochet~her hands knew what to do...by memory.  It was her hands that traced my youngest daughter, Mackenzy's face as a newborn.  She said she'd be frugal because her nose was small. She could not see then.  I remember her hands.

Their hands, at one time, were strong and capable.  Many a household task was performed with them.  A spanking~here and there, surely met their palm. Cookie dough rolled out, a piece of butterscotch candy put in a grandchild's hand. 

I don't know if either played the piano or any other instrument; sang or were masters at anything, really. But, I'm confident that a nose was wiped, a tear swept away, and hundreds of meals were prepared.  A helping hand was lent, a finger lashing now and again.

A garden planted, fruits and veggies picked and put up for another day.  A baby's back patted, diaper's changed, clothes hung on the line, finger puppets games played.  And, we can't forget a hug and a pat on the back.  

Crooked fingers and worm-like veins were imprinted in my mind.  And, as I sit here, writing this, I'm trying to remember if I knew their hands any other way; and, I don't think I do.

Hands...I've always had a fascination with hands.  They inspire me!