How To Touch The Sky

When I was a little girl, way back when Paul McCartney stole the throbbing hearts of female teens, I tried with all my ten-year-old self to shrink tiny. I did not want to own that awkward super-sprouting growth that landed me in the back row of the church choir. My friends were shorter, I wanted to stand by their side, I wanted to fit in, so I would bend my knees under a flowing purple robe, a ruse that went unnoticed. I stood on the last riser, in the back, with all the other early bloomers. I didn't know during those yesteryear's, that God has a way of sorting things out, without my help. And what may seem abominable at the moment might actually be His way of reaching down, whispering an invitation, gently offering his capable hands to take care of the situation, the crises, the moment. I reached my full height by sixth grade, I am short and I still have this ridiculous idea that I can control anything or anyone.

Last week I struggled to secure grand boy into the car seat. You must have shot up to the silvery moon last night! His brother and he switched seats, that didn't solve the problem and he said matter-of-factly, "I am too big." I winced.

I am too tall, too ugly, too stupid, too bookish, too weak, too short, too old.

 I stood back, scanned the cloudy sky, inhaled a breath of acceptance and rode on the wings of forever. Looking him deep in those crystal blue eyes, I said with my most sincere Grandma tone, "You are just right." I stole a glance at his smaller twin brother and added, "You are perfect, both of you, just as you are right at this moment." I never got the seat buckled properly, we rode home ever so slow.

I wonder if discovering your singing voice is actually bending free. Allowing the who you are to be bigger than that nagging self inside that struggles in vain, wrestles with your beautiful awesomeness.  Bravely, humbly, most abandonly singing off-key, touching the sky wild when the knees hit the ground.