Seek the Lord and his strength; seek his presence continually. (I Chronicles 16:11, ESV)
I sat at the dining room table, morning sun streaming through the windows, and thought about how Isaiah had his first piano lesson the day before. He’d witnessed music lessons for his brothers since he was a babe. Piano. Guitar. Finally it was his turn.
Yesterday, my eight-year-old sat tall on the bench. Our teacher of many years sat beside him. She didn’t know that he’d been up since six–anticipating his eight-o’clock lesson. From behind, I could see his feet moving under the seat. Back and forth. Back and forth. His excitement was too much to hold.
The teacher taught.
And my son asked questions.
Question after question.
When we got home, in between his homeschool lessons, he bolted to the piano. While I made dinner, he practiced. Plink. Plink. Plink. After soccer he rushed in and sat down to play, shin guards still up to his knees.
Isaiah’s heart is wide-open. He’s willing and expectant. He’s passionate to learn.
It’s how I want be in my relationship with the Lord.
A few years ago, I was involved in a prayer ministry. An almost 90-year-old gentleman named Dale was part of the team. I adored sitting next to Dale. His passion for the Lord ran deep. It flowed to those around him. “I’ve been a believer for most of my life,” he said. “But I’ve learned more about the Lord in the past few years than ever.” He smiled and blue eyes that had seen generations were colored with joy.
I want that kind of passion.
Father, make me passionate for learning about you. Give me a spirit that yearns. Give me a heart that’s tireless in seeking and tender to receive. One that’s bent to know you more. And let the joy of knowing you grow to a passion that directs my thoughts and actions and life and time. Consume me in my need to know you, Lord…
As I stood to refill my mug with coffee, Isaiah came around the corner. He was little-boy rumpled and fresh from bed. He pecked a kiss on my cheek, let his arms twine around my neck for a second, and then slid onto the piano bench again. His hair stood in white, wild still-summer tufts. His back was still brown from the sun. He had a blanket slung around his neck and his pink soles barely hit the floor.
And he began to play. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Oh, the sweet music of a passionate heart.
What a beautiful sound.
