Unexplored Territory

Monday, May 07, 2007

Don't you take that tone with me!

I remember my mother saying to me "Don't you take that tone with me!"

Our tone of voice is something that really indicates how we feel, isn't it? You can tell when someone is listening and really listening to you. You can tell when someone is just placating you. And you can tell when someone is really pissed off.

We listen to voices all day long. We hear our kids' voices, whining for just ONE more snack before dinner. We listen to our spouse's voice when you didn't turn in that one receipt that he didn't know about. We listen to our parents' voices when they are making a comment about our parenting style, but not directing that comment at us but instead directing it in the form of veiled criticism directly to our children.

And then there is that tone ... that one that says "whatever."

You know that one. That sarcastic, almost to the brink of being bored tone.

It was that tone that I chose to use in my head when our choir director told us to say "Praise the Lord" yesterday. But apparently not only did I use it in my head, I verbalized it.

Whoops.

I don't think that the people in front of me heard it. But Ace did. And as soon as it left my lips, I did one of those Homer Simpson cringe/D'oh things, and Ace exclaims "NICE!"

Apparently, it was a rather sarcastic exclamation.

But here's why. There is nothing that I don't like more is being TOLD by my pastors to say something. Is there an amen out there?

And this one was one of those times. Prompting someone to be led by the Spirit during worship is one thing. Forcing someone to respond in a certain manner, when you normally don't respond in that manner, that is a whole 'nother ball of wax for me.

I don't walk around saying Praise the Lord. I just don't. That isn't me. And don't even get me started when they taught us the motions to Lord We Lift Your Name on High that the ELEMENTARY CHOIR uses. Please. To see my MOTHER stand there, digging an imaginary grave ... that was just way too much.

Music is a large part of our ministry. And people should be allowed to worship in their own way. Asking the congregation to respond in a manner that is forced ... that really isn't giving glory to God to me. That is just asking them to be a participant, and maybe they don't want to participate in that manner. And maybe we don't want to do interpretive dance. Leave that to the one person in our church who so freely feels the leading of the Spirit that she will erupt in dance at any given moment (don't get me started on the effects that has on a person like me who can't stop staring at someone when they call attention to themselves, albeit not a selfish calling of attention).

So ... in your best "whatever" tone of voice ... say it with me

PRAISE THE LORD!

Labels: church, music, worship

Sunday, April 08, 2007

A Sign From Above

This morning, we had our Easter services. I had a solo. Yes ... me... the one who complains about not getting solos. I had one. It was brief, but it was there and I was ready to Tear. It. Up.

So I am singing away in the first service, and I thought that the choir anthem was more toward the middle of the service. The director starts waving his arms, and this really familiar music starts playing.

Me: La dee da. Hmm... where did Ace say he put my purse? Where ARE my parents? I can't find them in here at ALL and if they miss my sol.... WTH? Is THAT my music? Oh SH** it is.

Now. That was the inward discussion. The outward appearance was one of bliss, and then it was this:

So I about fell down off of the step, tried to non-chalantly, but hurriedly make it to the mike stand, and my director was kind enough to reach in and hand me my mike. And then I was off and singing. So I didn't really have a lot of time to get too nervous.

I went to sit with my parents afterwards, and asked my mother how it sounded. The Mominator, in her true style, said "well, your notes were dead-on, but you were WAY too loud. Do you think that you can hold the microphone down a little bit when you sing the next time?"

Me: Well no, Mominator. That isn't MY job. That is the guy in the sound booth's job to mix the mike in with the rest of the stuff. Go talk to him.

So I go into the second service, knowing exactly where I was supposed to sing, and was ready to do it. I walked up with confidence, grabbed my mike, and decided to check to see if it was on. Sure enough, it wasn't. But there are only sixteen measures in a fast 4/4 time to try to turn that puppy on, and when it wasn't turning on, I calmy handed it to my director, and started singing sans mike.

He got it turned on for me and handed it back, smooth as silk.

So there are a few theories: (1) it was the diva soprano who turned it off (who had the mike beforehand), (2) it magically turned off on its own, or (3) it was my mother. I was voting for # 3. It turned out to be # 1.

BUT here's the lesson learned in this little story: as much as I have bad-mouthed my director in times past, he was right there to help me. So I needed to learn that life's lesson. And it was also God's way of showing me that He has a sense of humor.

Labels: choir, church, solos

Monday, March 12, 2007

Who's your daddy?

Yesterday morning, it was the usual melee of leaving church. My kids were all over the place as usual, I didn't have the magic snap going that early in the morning, so I had to yell at my kids to stop running while the second service was just starting. The only thing that saved me was the fact that they were playing a loud video in church right at that moment.

And the poor Monkey got all tangled up in the melee. The poor thing is so small, and she only can see up to someone's leg. She has to look all the way back to see if she is even talking to the right person.

We were getting our coats on, and she turned to Matt, Robin's husband and started to take something from his hand because she thought it was Ace. She then heard me say "that isn't Daddy, honey" and she looked up and saw that, indeed, this was a different person. So she turned to the next substitute, Robin's brother. She also discovered this person was not her father, either.

She finally hit pay dirt when she started to cry and call out "where's my Daddy?!?"

Poor little mite. In her defense, all three of them are about the same height, same build, and same hair coloring. And about the same amount of hair, too.

She was SALTY on the way home, too. Man ... you should have seen her face.

But then, if I didn't know who my Daddy was, I would be mad, too.

Labels: church, kids

I'm a mom of three peeps ... Queen Bee, The Door Man, and the Chandelier Monkey, and wife to Ace, the Helpful Hardware Man. I created this space to get away from the people known as my inlaws, and because life with three kids and a hubby is all Unexplored Territory.

The nine-year-old who seems to be growing older every minute, has an opinion and a comment for everything, and has a true servant's heart.

The seven-year-old who loves the organization of things, will someday be someone's therapist because of his kind soul, and will more than likely be living with us until he is 40 years old.

The five-year-old with the 13-year-old attitude, who has a dictator's personality, asks you to watch her all the time and say "hold on" to keep your attention, and will someday come home on the back of some dude's motorcycle with 10 tatts and a body piercing or two.

The man of the house, the fixer of things, the winner of prizes, and the only person in his family to escape the South.