Every Heartbeat

5th grade was a hard year.  I did not like school.  I clearly remember sobbing at the dinner table as I was trying to finish my "composition technique" homework.  I had to write three sentence paragraphs about Native Americans.  I had memorized The Song of Hiawatha in its entirety, no problem, but composing a topic sentence with two supporting sentences wrecked havoc on my 10-year-old brain.

Little did I know that writing would one day become a source of creativity, an outlet.  Little did I know that writing would reveal the mysteries and the miracles I so easily sped by before.

Getting the sentences on the paper would prove a struggle for much of my schooling, however, there was an avenue where my synapses fired and I thrived. 

Creative Arts.

The Bug's first Recital.

Whether I was dancing, acting, singing, gymnastic-cizing, (yes, I know, I made that word up,) ice skating, or creating with my hands, I put my whole heart into it.  I loved to create.  I love to create.

If you head back to my very first post, A Lesson From Amy, you will learn of my fond feelings for Amy Grant.  They were woven in at a young age.  And, once again, Amy inspires yet another story.

With big bangs, black, ribbed bicycle shorts and floral tops with a tie-front, chiffon overlay that flared at the bottom, all purchased at Mervyn's, four extremely talented 5th grade girls performed an interpretive rendition, if you will, of the 1991 hit single, Every Heartbeat, at the school talent show.  ( I heart run-on sentences.  Take that, composition techniques!)

It. Was. Epic.  Oh, how I wish I had the video to show you...or at least a picture.

"Every heartbeat bears your name
Loud and clear they stake my claim
My red blood runs true blue
And every heartbeat belongs to you." 

(It's okay to sing along if you know the words.)

Yes.  Just like I remember, "By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shinging Big-Sea waters..."  (Hiawatha, my friends!) and the tears at the dinner table, I remember the truly inspired choreography of the chorus.  With strong windmill arms, grape-vines, and bended knees the four of us told the "classic story of boy meets girl...moving the same direction." 

We told the story.  

Tonight, as I sit and wait for Christmas to come with a child's anticipation, I am remembering the stories.  Stories of my childhood.  Stories that I read.  Stories that I told.  Stories that I lived.

In the middle of all the remembering I found myself reading about Abraham.  The Bible gives him an incredible eulogy.  One I so desperately want to be true of me.

"Then Abraham breathed his last and died at a good old age, an old man and full of years; and he was gathered to his people." Genesis 25:8

It made me think about my kids, the stories I tell them and what I want them to remember.  It made me think about the stories I am living with the people in my life and what I want them to remember.  What do I want to leave behind?

Legacy.

This word has weighed on my mind.  I continue to come back to it. 

As life unfolds and these days become the next ones I remember I desperately want all the days to point to One.  The One who ordered them.  The One who redeemed them.  The One who breathed afresh on them.

If every heartbeat I was graced with could bear His name...what would that look like?  If I could point my kids to Jesus as we walk to the park or look at the Christmas lights, what would they remember?  Will they look back at their own 10-year-old tears and see how the sweat, the ache, the frustration, the failure, the perseverence and their need for help could lead to a beautiful revelation of His goodness and grace?

As Christmas comes in a few days and the new year sweeps in right behind, I am praying LEGACY.  I want to leave behind a grace-filled story.  A story that reminds the ones I love and even the ones I may not know that the God who came to be with us is for us. 

Amy was singing about a boy, and at 10, I was too.  But tonight, as I remember the cheesy 90's pop chorus  (sorry Amy!), I am reminded of a baby King who grew into a boy and then a man whose red blood ran even though it was Royal blue. 

This baby King came to save me and wrap His love around me so I could tell His story to a broken world and pray those that hear it will remember it and tell it again.

The Bug and her proud mama who curbed her inner "stage-mom," and never fixed the head-band.  Let's just say it was a proud night for both of us.