Tune My Heart

 

There are those rare, perfect mornings when you have the luxury of opening your eyes not at the insistence of a beeping alarm, but rather just because they are ready to open.  When the sun is slanting just perfectly through your blinds, and the tip of your nose is chilly while the rest of you is snuggly warm.  When rather than rushing straight to the laundry list of “to do” items that will crowd your day, your mind has those sweet few minutes to wallow and wander and wake.  This morning was just that kind of morning, and in those sweet moments of waking, the only thought that flooded my mind, the sole all-consuming and overwhelming greeting to my day was a resounding “thank You, thank You, thank You”.  And I knew, even as I said it over and over and over again, that somehow “thank You” was an incredibly lacking sentiment for a morning, a day, a life like this one. 

Later as I dawdled around the kitchen, the air in the house still kissed with the chill from the night before and the view through the window above the sink absolutely picture perfect, I landed on what I’d been reaching for earlier.  It filled every part of me as if someone were right there next to me at the kitchen sink singing it . . . tune my heart to sing Thy grace.  THAT.  Not just an occasional “thank You” when I stop long enough to remember my manners, but rather all all-consuming, never ceasing, overflowing, overwhelming state of absolute gratitude for ALL THE THINGS, ALL THE TIME. 

I couldn’t put it out of my mind.  It echoed there as I grabbed for the words that someone else had already said so well . . . streams of mercy, never ceasing.  It was one of those rare, beautiful, “stop what you are doing and write this down because this is important, and you need this” kind of moments that are so incredibly precious to me.  One of those times that I’m reminded that He most certainly is talking to me if I will just have the sense to be still and know.  A make your heart beat fast because your fingers can’t keep up with your thoughts, and remember to breathe because now that you’ve stopped to think about it for a minute, His love for you just takes your breath away kind of moment.  I googled the words and just soaked them in . . .

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

Streams of mercy, never ceasing

Call for songs of loudest praise

Teach me some melodious sonnet

Sung by flaming tongues above

Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it

Mount of Thy redeeming love     (Come They Fount of Every Blessing, Robinson)

Now, stop reading here if you don’t want to have your toes good and stepped on.  We are, my sweet friends, a bunch of spoiled, whiney complainers.  Sometime after Mr. Robinson penned those words back in 1758, we exchanged our Praise Pants for a more comfortable pair of Bellyaching Britches.   Why is it so easy to focus on what’s wrong rather than to shine the light on the good?  Why has that become our default?  Please note that I’m intentionally using “we” and “our” because I am talking LOUD AND CLEAR to the Negative Nelly in the mirror.  It’s so easy to blame it on “our current situation” or 2020 or a horrible virus or an election year, but at the end of the day, it is a CHOICE.  And I’ve been choosing to let that mess get all over me, draped around my neck like an albatross, weighing me down like concrete boots, and wearing it like a fur coat in August. “It” has been sitting heavy on my head, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was until this morning when my precious Father whispered in my ear.  Yes, work is hard and life is hard and the world is hurting and broken and no child should ever be sick or hungry or scared and mediocrity is rewarded and the evil squeaky wheel seems to always get the grease and cancer is the very cellular embodiment of Satan himself and college professors who are too smart for their own good try to make us doubt our faith and our team loses and loses and loses and our drive-through order is never correct and the mask gives us chin zits and there just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all and sometimes it takes a lot of effort to even see a tiny flicker of good, BUT here I am.  There is Me.  And My mercy, it’s never ceasing. 

Last night at Cooper’s football game a group of fans from the opposing team came to the game with one purpose, to whole-heartedly heckle our players.  And boy, did they deliver.  They rattled our guys without even really trying very hard.  Michael commented that every time they started up, our band should start playing.  Just drown them out, he said.  And that, precious ones, is the answer.  Found right there in the bleachers of a high school football stadium.  Songs of LOUDEST praise.  It’s not going away.  All of the ugly?  It will all still be there in our periphery trying to rattle us, and, just as sure as I know that not every morning will start like this morning did for me, I am far too realistic to think that our band will always be able to play loudly enough to drown it out.  But, we sure can make a conscious effort to at least try.  To be sensitive to its creeping in, to know when its weight starts to drag us down.  To know that then, at that moment, THAT is when it’s most important to toot our flute or bang our drum and just drown it out.  Tune my heart, Lord.  When the world is heckling me and it’s just too easy to add to the ugly, teach me the melody of Your mercy and grace.  Remind my heart to sing.  Isn’t it a beautiful thing to picture?  Our all too often whispered faith turning into songs of LOUDEST praise.

And just in case our current state of affairs has your heart’s tuning fork just a little rusty or if perhaps the language of the 1700s doesn’t resonate strongly with you, I took the liberty of adding a new verse to Mr. Robinson’s work (expecting a call from the Hymnal company any day) . . .

Shut my mouth, stop my complaining.

Fill my heart with gratitude.

There is good, help me to see it,

even when someone is rude.

Remind me when in traffic.

Always kind help me to be.

Tune my heart, let others see it.

More of You and less of me.