The Playhouse

By Camille Anding

It was one of my top ten favorite hymns and though extremely limited in vocal worship, I was belting the words with ardor and devotion.  Suddenly the words weren’t just words on the screen; they were messages addressed to me.  “This is my story – this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.”

My story – what WAS my story?  I knew I had a legitimate excuse for my limited song, but everyone has a story.  We’re telling it every day – pages then chapters – our stories.  Even when it’s not a verbal story, actions are making strong statements.

I felt sure the songwriter wasn’t speaking of verbal praise in some continuous chant form as my only conversation.  It was words of kindness, compassion and honesty that I speak or don’t speak during the day.  It was an attitude of humility versus pride or a gentle response when I wanted to “bark.”

“My story” surely has a few “good” chapters, but during that hymn-turned-confessional song, I was hard-pressed to recall anything but the hypocrisy of my story.  By the second chorus, my ardor was being replaced with repentance.

“Remember the comment you made about that certain individual, the one I created?”  It was a small voice but strong enough to be heard over the music.  The voice continued, “You profess to be a good steward of your money.  What about your time?”

I thought of the fleetness of my days – how rapidly the weeks are passing.  With time at premium value, was I using it wisely – in a manner categorized as praiseworthy?  The use of time was surely telling a part of my story.

The category of habits nudged its way into the chorus, too.  There are good and bad habits.  What story were mine telling? Habits can have a loud voice.

The song finally ended, but my thoughts still lingered over the words.  I had sung it as a favorite for so many times, but it had never delivered such a powerful message to me. Now I was left with a decision.  What would I do about the convicting words?  Having Jesus as my Savior brings blessed assurance for which I am eternally grateful.  How could my story not always express praise and gratitude for such unmerited assurance?