She is there every Sunday: hair in two, dark braids, khaki pants, red shirt. She is maybe 14, and I do not know her story. Surely she must be able to hear. Her timing and laughter and precision is impeccable. But every Sunday, she signs. She does not sing. She chooses to sign.
I cannot take my eyes off her. From my balcony view to her in the front row, we are miles apart… but I cannot take my eyes off her.
I do not sing at our new church. Not up front like before, and sometimes not from the bleachers, either. I love to listen to the people sing around me. I love to watch the worship leaders, the band. I love to mouth the words, to pray them silently. But the music… the music is not in me right now. It is a different season, one that will change… but one that, for now, is silent.
The girl in red, in the front row, she does not sing either.
She dances. She is fluid and staccato and power all in one.
She worships. With each beat, her hands tell a story.
And I cannot take my eyes off her.
She makes the lyrics come alive. Her whole body sings and breathes and pauses. Smiles and cries and claps and runs and sways. For 20 minutes every Sunday, I am captivated by the story she tells.
I need to watch her. To remember that it is one thing to sing… but it is another thing entirely to worship.
It is one thing to study but another to practice.
I hear her loud and clear.
Her silence is more beautiful than a choir of angels.
You, young woman with the beautiful hair and the story in your hands… you are stunning. You are the very definition of putting action to words, and I am humbled by the sincerity display.
I am taking notes. I will find my voice again, genuine and imperfect. And I will remember, because of you, that God speaks through silence as easily as through books and preachers and fire. That He is not listening to voices but to hearts.
Your heart is lovely. And I cannot take my eyes off you.