She stared blankly at the picture in front of her. Fragmented pieces of colour seemingly scattered randomly on a sheet of glass.
It had been a busy, busy week. The adrenaline from planning the services for the week was quickly fading, and now it was Sunday night. The hustle and bustle had finally died down and she finally had a few moments to sit quietly before the activities of the next week flurried by again.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
The words from the familiar hymn from earlier that morning rang in her head as her fingers idly traced over the outlines of each of the fragmented pieces of colour. Her eyelids were drooping but still she forced herself to try and make sense of that picture in front of her. It was a familiar one; perhaps something she had used for weeks like this in years passed. But tonight, the picture did not make sense.
She let the words ring in her head one more time. "Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
Then it hit her. That picture. It was that very same picture they had portrayed earlier that day in the service. The disciples gathered around the table with the bread and the wine. It all came together now.
Nicodemus, and the "righteousness" he had learnt from his role as a religious teacher...
Mary Magdalene, and the postures of brokenness she found at the feet of the Christ...
John, and the way he completely missed the point while the Christ was in his midst...
Mary and Joseph, and the heartache of losing their child...
"I've forgotten about the music," she whispered, as the first tear rolled down her cheek
"I've forgotten what it means to pray.
Don't know why I stopped believing,
Don't know why I settled for less.
Speak to me of that man again -
He had much knowledge of the Law.
Speak to me of how he had to relearn
The wonder of who You are.
Remind me of that woman
With her alabaster jar.
Remind me to unbound my hair
And sit at Your feet for a while.
Tell me that story again
Of that man You call "Beloved."
Tell me again of how he forgot
The marvel of who You are.
Sing me the song of that broken heart
Of the woman and her husband who lost their son.
Sing me the song with Your words of comfort
And heal the brokenness of my heart."
The fragmented pieces of colour all came together now. There was room at the table for the Nicodemuses, the Mary Magdalenes, the Johns, and the Mary and Josephs.
But more importantly, there was room for her even when the flurries of activity leave little time for her to remember.
"Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die..."
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