I had a great morning. I enjoyed my husband with canoodling and flirting. Laughing.  And I enjoyed it so much that I sailed into Sunday service. Just in time. I joyfully walked up on stage to worship my great and glorious God. And then I turned around . And it happened. 

The presence of the lies and the feeling of a cruel forsakeness that is hard to describe. Among the crowd of people staring back at me, ( they’re not really staring back at me but it feels that way if you lead worship sometimes) . Among the crowd of disciples are most of the  women I was pregnant with. They are holding their babies or closely monitoring their toddlers. 

And then there’s me. And that screaming woman inside of me. She wants to know where our baby is- why we’re the only ones without the typical prize to show for a pregnancy. Why we only need a bible and not a diaper bag and nursing cover and the like.  Why this happened to us.  

Of course my big furry protector Aslan has told me we are not to ask if and why but only to trust His what is. . . But the screaming lady inside me doesn’t get that. 

It overcomes me. The sheer horror of the reality of this again. But it overcomes me when I’m supposed to be leading worship looking like I have my act together. It takes me down with eyes on me and a microphone in my face. 

And it makes me feel like a failure. A misfit. Someone who needs to ” give it up.” As they say.  For me, worship is never about performance until you cannot perform well. Well then you’re not worthy .  The whole thing feels like a terrible battle instead the mountain top experience I had planned on.  

And I pretty much run out of the church. I don’t want to be seen and known like this. My mascara is a river that’s collected on my neck. War paint is gone along with my ability to fight. So I surrender. But not to my enemy. To My God. 

He has His reasons for His plans. And I have my reasons for trusting Him. 

He only asks that I go back in this morning. I Get a quick truth check from the tribe. Touch up the war paint. Straighten my crown and return head held high. 

I don’t know who is aware of the battle this was and who is not. Did they see me shake? It Doesn’t matter.  I return for my King and not His crowd. I will keep following even if it leads to at times to a hot place of embarsssment. 

And so we’ll keep dancing. Publicly. Privately. Peacefully and in times of great battle. Because no matter how consistently I am a hot mess, I am His. 

I. Am. His.