I’m sorry, but when I am pondering the wonder of God’s love for me, hurricanes, trees, and sloppy wet kisses do not come to mind. Not even a little bit.
That’s not a criticism, it’s a confession.
Talking bad about someone’s worship music is a quick way to start a fuss. I remember well the old preacher who told us that the music we sang and played back in the ’70’s “didn’t have no handles.” We couldn’t figure out what that meant, and he couldn’t explain it, so we just stared at each other across the Great Divide. At church, we’d sing some of ours and he’d find some “with handles” that he could lead, and we fashioned an understanding of sorts.
A few months ago, doctors told a lady in our church that she had cancer. Her family and friends, obviously, were devastated. A follow-up visit was scheduled to gain more specific information about her condition. Folks agreed to gather at the church and pray for her the night before she was to report for that appointment.