I work my way around the rack of blue jeans and become aware of a dull irritation settling in. The harsh lights. The stuff everywhere. The feeling that I'd like to run away as fast and far as I can. And the music. That damned music.
Damned. I mean that word. I'm not just throwing it around like wannabe sorority mom who knows a few vulgarities and how to use them. I'm too awkward to pull that off anyway. I stop in the middle of pawing the denim and rest my head on the rack. Listening to the pounding of the music of the damned.
I don't have any idea where the musical stars belting out their tunes are going to spend their eternity. But their lyrics are certainly the echo of damnation. The hellish sort of poetry that reminds me I am not of this world and thank God that He has given me a way out of it. It exhausts my soul. Works my senses to a frenzy. I can feel the battle for my affection.
Oh, I know how I sound. My words are the words of the uptight Christian mama pharisee who wouldn't know fun if it hit her in the forehead. Maybe I'm a Catholic Footloose parent who can't see that we have to be able to escape from our Christ-personalities for a little while in order to thrive. To which I reply...
There is no joy that can be found anywhere but Christ. And I don't think I'm supposed to go looking for Him in the words and rhythms of the walking dead. I know there are beloved souls behind the creation of those songs but I don't have to eat the fruits of the wandering lost in order to love the souls. I've got my own soul to save here, too. I'm tired of the "misguided mystics". If they are misguided, then why do we follow? They reject true Love... so let me love from afar then.
Yeah my mama she told me don't worry about your size
She says, "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night."
Well, the mall ain't no TOB convention. What did I expect? I wonder if my little daughter hears and what she thinks. And I shop jeans for a young boy in a world that isn't mine. But maybe it's me. Maybe it's just me.
What is sin? Sin is the rejection of Love. And my God calls me with the passion of a lover to enter into His joy. Is it really possible to enter purely and fully into that joy while I give myself with abandon to the words of His enemies?
One young "misguided mystic" takes the reins from another, flooding the store with her voice...
Let's go all the way tonight
No regrets, just love
We can dance, until we die
You and I, will be young forever
Young forever. Not in this life. It's a lie. A damned lie.
I sigh out loud and the girl behind the counter looks at me with a bit of concern. I'm strange, honey, I know it. But this music... it has caught me at a soft time. A time when my heart is a little more sensitive to His Word. I'm usually blind and stone deaf. I'm always weak and complaining. But sometimes...
... Sometimes I hear the words that I sing so carelessly with the car radio and I know. These aren't the words that a Lover sings. These are the words of infidelity.
And the blue jeans come into view again and I start to check the price tags. My soul starts to get caught by the bass in the background and I feel the power of music on creation...
I live for the applause, applause, applause
I live for the applause-plause
Live for the applause-plause
Live for the way that you cheer and scream for me
The applause, applause, applause
For the love of God... make it stop. Because we profess to be in love with God... stop...
I love you with an inordinate love. That longing defies my logic and draws me... where? Just draws me. Away. I just want you to know that I belong to Someone and I'm not a cheat. He asked for my whole heart and I give it. I know how to have fun. But I told Him that He could have my fun, too, if He wanted it. And He promised... Do you know what He promised? He promised that He would return Joy for my faithfulness.
So though you pull me in, I don't dance to you. I only dance to praise.
And though you sit right there on iTunes, I don't buy. My money is not my own.
And though you plague me in the blue jean section, I sing the song of my Beloved in my heart. And leave the trash where it belongs.
You can keep singing of the damned. But I can't go with you.
A Daughter of the King
Buy the jeans, girl, and go home. Rest in the quiet of the loud children and humming washing machine. There is no shame in this song of love. Or in a desire for purity. And peace.
There is no song that is worth more than the honor of my God. There is no artist who has a right to my adoration. I would give it up in a moment if I knew it would please Him. And what pleases Him? What displeases Him? This beautiful Lover of my soul. Rooting it out... rooting it out...
The blue jeans are home and the beat and lyrics that I know so well continue to play on repeat in my head. I am sensory like that. It disturbs my prayer and I again wonder why so few people seem to mind the ugly that we drink in. So I pray for peace of mind and soul. And for a revolution of Love. And I write it down.