A friend called me yesterday to say that someone shared with her their recent and ongoing struggle to transfer to the Crossing. A familiar local struggle, that of informing Catholic parents and extended family of a decision to change churches. (I'm not sure people raised in strong Catholic homes ever completely leave the Catholic faith; they do grow past it in increasing measure as their appetites for more intimate and personal spiritual growth and understanding are discovered and nurtured.) I do not underestimate this struggle knowing well the years spent enduring my own ostracism when a protestant mother fought to raise my sister and I in opposition to my father's Catholic faith. Nothing pretty or easy about it.

Two weeks ago after a Wednesday rehearsal, I asked Shawna what we should play for communion music over the coming weekend. She asked about the sermon topic which happened to be a number of parables; Lost sheep. Lost coin. Lost son. She suggested the song I had been thinking about and I laughed that she had read my mind.

I guess from what she told me over the phone that it was a decision laying heavily on the heart of this couple for some time- one that they had been burdened with and praying about a great deal over the last few months. Enough so that the woman sheepishly decided to unroll a "fleece" before the LORD in desperate need of a sign.

I could tell Shawna was impatient with me to make up my middle aged mind. I just couldn't decide between the two songs. I liked the one we landed on at rehearsal but we haven't really used it in a while and I really liked this other recent favorite too. I could also tell she didn't care. As the communion meditation began I handed her the chart for our original pick. She smiled.

She felt a little silly confessing her story to my friend and even in the re-telling I could sense the timid hope she must have clung to as she laid it down and waited. Through our opening song set. Through the invitation set. Waiting. Wanting.

We began to play.

She began to weep.

Her husband didn't know what was going on, completely unaware that she had asked God for a sign that morning on the way to service, or that the service was drawing to a close without an answer.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found, t'was blind but now I see."

I can't even tell you what other song was in the running that day. I can only tell you that Shawna and I both chose the song independent of the other's decision. I can only tell you that we don't use it often for services. I can only tell you that as I heard her testimony I immediately remembered my waffling over the two songs and remembered being drawn to the hymn repeatedly. Almost stubbornly.

My prayer of late has been for God to get bigger in my eyes. More holy. More mighty. More unknown, if that makes sense. But in moments like these I realize that sometimes He's small enough, tender enough, known enough to hear the silent cry of a desperate daughter and play her favorite song.