One Hundred Eight

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Earlier this week I was driving around town with my van full of kids (all mine) and with my windows down, enjoying the beautiful spring weather. “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on the radio, so of course I cranked it up and sang it loudly, thoroughly embarrassing my kids.

The next day, packing up the van to take the kids to school, I grabbed our “antique” CD holder so I could put some new music in the van. I chose a disk from my college days and was transported back in time as Third Day, Jars of Clay, Caedmon’s Call, and Leigh Nash poured through the speakers. I instantly recalled lyric after lyric to song after song on the album, despite the many years that have passed since I last listened.

And I was struck with thankfulness that, at one point in my life, all I ever listened to was “praise and worship” music.

My kids listen to a healthy variety of music, mostly pumped through our house daily with Pandora. They love John Williams and Michael Giacchino, but do they know more Ray LaMontagne lyrics or more Sandra McCracken?

The songs on the City on a Hill album spoke truth to my heart throughout the rest of the day. Music has always been one of the most vital ways of keeping God’s truth and word in my heart and on my lips.

On the way to school, I was quizzing my fifth grader for his memory verse test: Hebrews 12:28-29 “Therefore let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe,  for our God is a consuming fire.” Mac Powell’s throaty growl was ringing in my ears and I realized what an advantage it was to have all of those words hidden in my heart.

Children are sponges, and I want mine soaking up truth, goodness, and beauty. I don’t have to be legalistic about it, but my Pandora stations may get shuffled around a bit.

(This is also on heavy rotation in the van.)

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