pulling at my feet

In the recorded conversation that is part of the final two tracks of A Collision, the album I mentioned recently (trying to make you sing) from the David Crowder Band, David Crowder dramatizes a telephone interview with some unnamed writer/critic.

The topic of their conversation relates the difficulty the writer/critic is having understanding the album content and especially the final track called The Lark Ascending, in which the Lark is leading us to new heights in song and worship.

The writer/critic is attempting to characterize David Crowder as the Lark, but David resists the idea, saying he doesn’t feel like the Lark much of the time.  David says, just before the musical crescendo launches, barely audible under the pounding rhythm, “but the ground pulls at my feet.”

But the ground pulls at my feet.

After a beautifully busy weekend, like a box full of the glazed doughnuts of fun activities with friends and family, filled and oozing with the raspberry jelly of Jesus conversations, finishing with the indigestion of weariness and family feuds punctuated by my own temper, Monday came like a Mack truck and left me with a physical and mental hangover.

But the ground pulls at my feet.

Thank God for my beautiful and patient wife who never ceases to forgive me and care for our children with grace and tough love.

Also, thank God for my mother, who joined me for lunch and poured out her heart, which is always overflowing from her constant searching of scripture in the wee hours, reminding me of the music of heaven, the soundtrack for life.

While writing this post, sitting on the loveseat in our living room with children leaning against my sides, brushing feet away from the keyboard, relishing in the beauty of God’s investment in our lives, as evidenced by the simple and fun meal I just shared with 11 of 12 family members present, I had to jump up to intervene in a sibling tiff and correct some weary kids who can quickly bring my temperature to boiling at this time of night.

But the ground pulls at my feet.

Ayda is crying at my feet.  Meghan is laying on my left arm, slurping an empty bottle, squirming to find a comfortable position.  Ethan sucks his thumb against my right shoulder while holding an army recruiting brochure from some unknown source and repeating, “be army strong,” which someone has read to him from the brochure’s title.

I’m going to go now . . . I’m going to enjoy the music playing in the background of life as the Lark ascends to its source, while the ground pulls at my feet, confident that being pulled between the two is the right place to be.  The tension is bearable.

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