My daughters have recently become ballet fans. Or rather, fanatics. Since they acquired “Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses” (the DVD) there's been no living with them. You call them to the table and they glide lightly in, feet pointed gracefully. They do dainty little traveling turns from room to room, moving around the house like a corps de ballet. What can one say?
So I was surprised recently when I found the Bolshoi Nutcracker on TV and got loud, instant complaints from the little ladies. “BOR-ing!” “When can WE watch something?” “What's on Noggin?” I kept saying, “Just wait. It gets better,” but it never seemed to. I could have just made them watch it, or at least made them do something else while I watched it, but instinct told me if I forced the issue I could accelerate the inevitable time (it's coming) when they'll tire of ballet. So instead I said, “Let's not watch this. I've got something better.” And I pulled out an old “Ballet Magnificat” video cassette, ready to pull that one too if they got bored. To my surprise, they loved it! They couldn't get enough of the premier Christian ballet company going through their 1994 repertoire.
Of course, I was enjoying it too. I haven't seen this one in years. It's so old I'm lucky I didn't damage the heads on my VCR. On this video you can enjoy several really nice suites. The first one is set to some of Integrity's Hosannah music, all classically styled. I was enjoying one of the first few songs, “I Will Sing of the Mercies of the Lord” with the girls. The song starts with a couple of ladies coming out with tambourines. They do some middle eastern folk style moves, in the way that ballerinas often do folk steps—with almost superhuman grace. But then when they got to one particular part of the song, I did a double take. Hey! I recognized that set of moves! I knew it really well, in fact. It was mine! And I was transported back to 1993, a year before the video came out.
That was the year I went to a Jerusalem Worship Dance seminar. My dance company had told me numerous times I should go to one of those things. Rich gatherings of worshipers who also happened to be dancers. It was designed for church dancers like me. The bigwigs in the world of worship dance were brought in to teach us, and they would pool their creativity, and teacher and student alike would come away with ideas to enrich the next year of choreography. This particular year I went for the first time. I did not know what to expect, so when the brochure said there would be a chance to bring a piece you were working on and they would help you with it, I didn't know enough to be self-conscious about it. I picked out a song I was indeed working on and brought along a cassette.
I flew into Washington DC full of excitement, dance shoes packed away carefully. I was swept into a world of visual extravagance, where there were so many beautiful things to see that one was almost overwhelmed. Sondance was there, a duo I had admired since the beginning of my dance experience. That alone would have been enough to draw me. And there was Ballet Magnificat, Liz Dimmel, and many others with far more experience than I had. We sweated through rigorous master classes, and I felt like I held my own, not the best dancer by any means, but a respectable student at this level.
When the evening came for us to get help with our pieces, I was good and scared. I felt a little like a kindergarten crayon artist showing fridge art to Rembrandt. But, I'd signed up, and I really wanted some input on this piece. So I danced it. I forget the singer, but the song was called “Clap Your Hands.” It was done in that neoclassical style that used to be popular, combining synth with classical chord structures. The lyrics went something like this:
Clap your hand, all ye people.
Shout to God for joy.
For He is King over all the earth.
His throne is established in righteousness.
And now He comes, His people to bless.
Clap your hands! Clap your hands!
Shout to God for joy!
I didn't want to go clapping through the whole song. The sound of my palms smacking together jangled one's nerves and fought with the sound of the music, so I devised this nifty Semitic-looking move where your hands didn't actually meet, but you mimed a clap. And in that second-to-the-last line you did a little traveling turn in one direction, did your mime clap, traveled back the other way, and clapped again. When I got to that part and did my little move, I heard this voice, “I LIKE that!” and my worship dancer's heart rejoiced, because you were always were looking for ways to praise God and you derived your ministry from encouraging people to worship with you. And I had high hopes that what I was doing was translating into praise for them, so I redoubled my efforts and put everything into it. Probably way too much into it, and when the song ended, I sat down, puffing and sweating, to get my critique.
The dance was well received, especially the one move. There was room for improvement, of course. Although I honestly can't remember what they said (probably to straighten out my arabesques or something), I appreciated that the one move got communicated to them. If they GOT it, then it must be clear, and it would hopefully minister at my own church, too.
But while I sat there with my mouth hanging open, panting, my lungs filled with the cold, dry air from the hotel and my bronchial tubes started to swell. Never having experienced that before, I wasn't concerned about the fact that it was getting harder to breathe. I mean, who hasn't been out of breath before? And I'd danced pretty hard.
Then it was time for the next dancer, and I got up and went back to my seat. Breathing got harder and I got up to go to the ladies' room so I wouldn't disturb anybody. Things went from bad to worse. I couldn't exhale. I coughed hard, got the air out, then I couldn't inhale. I kept trying, getting more and more desperate. This lady came in there, not with the conference, but somebody staying in the hotel. I tried not to disturb her, but at this point I was absolutely fighting to breathe. She asked if she could help, so I pointed to the double doors behind which the conference was still going on and choked out something about getting somebody from in there. A moment later in rushed the Sondance duo, as well as Liz Dimmel. So much for not wanting to be a bother.
Somebody handed me a paper bag, thinking maybe I was hyperventilating. I wasn't, but the bag was helpful in that the warm, moist air from inside my lungs was sent back down, relaxing the bronchials. I sucked greedily on that paper bag, then looked up in relief. They stayed for a minute or two, talking nicely, and then went back to the workshop. Embarrassed, I got in my sister's car and drove back to her house, where I was staying there in DC. I felt much better the next day and enjoyed the rest of the conference.
Over the next few years I would go to a conference when I needed refreshing, and I might meet up with Liz or Yvonne or somebody, and we always laughed over the paper bag incident. I had a few more incidences like that, and eventually was diagnosed with exercise-induced asthma. It's pretty manageable these days. In fact, I haven't had an episode since I got too old to dance; but I'll probably always remember and hate the feeling of desperation you get when you can't seem to get that all-important next breath.
You know what's kind of cool? I didn't realize it at the time, but my little clapping move found its way into the pool of creativity that seemed to follow those conferences. I used to pick up Christian dance videos from here and there, and for a year or so I saw that move done over and over. The JWD dancers did it. Sondance did it at the next Jerusalem Worship Dance conference. And although I missed it at the time, Ballet Magnificat adapted it to tambourines and put it on their video. So that's my little contribution to the Christian dance world.
This week I went to ask our pastor what his Sunday sermon was going to be about (I was picking out music), and he mentioned something about being desperate for God. Immediately my mind went to the song, “Breathe.” I can resonate to that song.
“This is the air I breathe, Your Holy presence living in me. And I—I'm desperate for you.”
You see, I know what it is to be desperate for the next breath, to fight and scratch and long to breathe one more time. I sit here clicking away on a sunny day, enjoying the warmth of the evening sun, drinking in deep, calm breaths. But I happen to know that, calm as I am, I have a desperate need for that next breath.
Did you know that in the Greek language the words “Spirit” and “breath” are the same? Pneuma means “Spirit,” “breath,” and also “wind.” Are you comfortable in the place God has you? Good. Are you in a hungry time? Good, too. Whether you realize it or not, you and I share one thing in common: a desperate need. I'm desperate for the next thing God's Holy Spirit is going to do in my life. He's my Breath. He keeps me alive.
Refiner's Fire, recorded Friday night (3-28-08)
Breathe_3-28-08.mp3
Sunday, March 30, 2008
You don't have to be beautiful....
...to be fearfully and wonderfully made.
I was out tromping in back a few days ago and pulled back some bark on a fallen tree, looking for something to photograph. This little wonder was there. You can see its fearfully and wonderfully made insides.
I suspect this is one of the many varieties of immature insects tended by wood ants. There was fresh evidence of wood ant activity nearby, and you can see the honeydew droplets on this fellow, waiting to be harvested by hungry ants.
How did an insect with no creativity or intelligence learn how to harvest honeydew from larvae? Which ant thought of it first? How did she teach the others her lore? Who told the ant that to keep a steady supply nearby, one must tend to the needs of the larva, defend it from predators, and bring it the correct variety of leafy plant to eat? Could it be that there is a God who wrote these things into the ant's DNA?
From this photograph I learned that sometimes it's good to use a longer focal length. It would have been nice to have the back of the larva in focus too.
I was out tromping in back a few days ago and pulled back some bark on a fallen tree, looking for something to photograph. This little wonder was there. You can see its fearfully and wonderfully made insides.
I suspect this is one of the many varieties of immature insects tended by wood ants. There was fresh evidence of wood ant activity nearby, and you can see the honeydew droplets on this fellow, waiting to be harvested by hungry ants.
How did an insect with no creativity or intelligence learn how to harvest honeydew from larvae? Which ant thought of it first? How did she teach the others her lore? Who told the ant that to keep a steady supply nearby, one must tend to the needs of the larva, defend it from predators, and bring it the correct variety of leafy plant to eat? Could it be that there is a God who wrote these things into the ant's DNA?
From this photograph I learned that sometimes it's good to use a longer focal length. It would have been nice to have the back of the larva in focus too.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Constellations
As the emotions were building up inside, I was struggling to find an exit strategy. Somehow to quickly and painlessly remove myself from the conversation. Every word that I said, though, ensnared me deeper into the argument. Yes, I could just let them win, but I couldn't, not until they understood me. Emotions were cut and oozing - I didn't feel like I could contain myself any longer.
Finally, saved, I burst out into the inky black night. The coldness of the air searing my lungs, freezing the tears to my face. Throwing up my arms, I look to the stars. My lovely stars. And everything fell back into perspective. I was small and my troubles insignificant. As wide as I could stretch out my arms, the night sky was much bigger. and prettier.
The autumns and springs of my life are marked off with the rising and setting of Orion and the filling up and pouring out of the big and little dippers. They felt like my closest friends, seeing all and knowing the secrets that I whispered to them. They centered me.
When I learned about how God set the stars in the sky in the beginning and every night calls them out by name, my heart shown bright with tears. Before I even was, he was tending to the stars so one day they might comfort someone. Guide someone home in the cold darkness. The wind, snow and sleet whirling around can get me confused at where to put me feet. I might trip and fall. But if I'm patient and look up sometimes there is a hole in the clouds and the stars are shining through. And soon the storm will clear.
Rising and setting, they never change. Sometimes my view is obscured, but they are still there. Like God. There are times when we can't see what he is doing, but he is still working.
Finally, saved, I burst out into the inky black night. The coldness of the air searing my lungs, freezing the tears to my face. Throwing up my arms, I look to the stars. My lovely stars. And everything fell back into perspective. I was small and my troubles insignificant. As wide as I could stretch out my arms, the night sky was much bigger. and prettier.
The autumns and springs of my life are marked off with the rising and setting of Orion and the filling up and pouring out of the big and little dippers. They felt like my closest friends, seeing all and knowing the secrets that I whispered to them. They centered me.
When I learned about how God set the stars in the sky in the beginning and every night calls them out by name, my heart shown bright with tears. Before I even was, he was tending to the stars so one day they might comfort someone. Guide someone home in the cold darkness. The wind, snow and sleet whirling around can get me confused at where to put me feet. I might trip and fall. But if I'm patient and look up sometimes there is a hole in the clouds and the stars are shining through. And soon the storm will clear.
Rising and setting, they never change. Sometimes my view is obscured, but they are still there. Like God. There are times when we can't see what he is doing, but he is still working.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
This Is His Blood
If ever there was a week when a person got beaten up emotionally, this would be the one for me. Can't put my finger on any one thing, just a bunch of things all converging to make it Connie's “Get Beat Up Week.”
First was the hearing which brought home to us all that my friends are really going through divorce—the point at which people begin to lose hope that it could all go away and things could get better. For weeks now every time I go to pray, or connect with God, I feel that pressure behind the eyes that tells you you're on the verge of tears. Friends' pain can be a heavy burden.
Then there was the brochure photography job, which at another time might have been great fun, but coming at my yearly peak of burnout (the school year is coming to a close, but there's a Spring Program yet to do), it's with mixed feelings that I take on anything.
Then two students near and dear to me left in a clash of two cultures. Two of our Korean students skipped out this past week and may not come back. I was in the process of ordering nice pennywhistles for them to take back to Korea, but now they're unexpectedly gone. I invested a great deal of my week trying to explain what I know of Asian culture to the school administrators, but I don't think I made much headway.
And on Friday another of our students left because her mom can't afford private school any more. They live too far away to be able to afford the gasoline it takes to get here. This student is also my daughter's best friend. My daughter, who has never grasped how to make friends, finally got it, and had a good friend—who is gone now.
After school on Friday my kids went swimming with some friends, leaving me cleaning up my classroom and then choosing songs for Sunday. When I got done I took my heaviness down to the office. I knew I needed a good “sliver of time,” I needed to rejuvenate, and I had some time to myself. I asked the office personnel for ideas. The secretary suggested a haircut, but my stylist is busy and doesn't do walk ins. The pastor suggested I go turn on the sound system and play my guitar too loud—that's what he would do. That sounded like the best advice yet, but I amended it by grabbing a penny whistle instead. I also left the sound system off. The vaulted ceiling in there makes it a VERY nice place to whistle. I played for about an hour or so. You know, though, I'm frustrated with my playing right now. Life is too busy and I don't take enough time to practice, so when I DO practice I beat myself up for not being better. Still, a penny whistle played under a vaulted church ceiling is healing, even if played imperfectly. It helped some.
Friday nights I don't set my alarm. I relish sleeping until my body feels like waking up. At this point I had no hope that it would help, but it's my thing, so I didn't set my alarm. But sleep wasn't meant to happen that night. One of my kids was sick all night, and I was up with her, running back and forth with buckets and doing the mom thing.
All of this converged Saturday into one exhausted, burnt out human mother. I ran my healthy child to knitting class, picked around online here and there, and did little else. I did not nap. I don't know why.
Last night, then, I made a deliberate decision. I would not set my alarm to go to church. Roger could run the kids to church. I was playing hookey. I had no crucial part in any song the praise team was doing. They would be fine if I didn't make it.
So I woke up this morning at 6:22, my normal time. I sighed heavily and turned over. I woke up again at 6:30. I sighed and turned over again. I woke up again at 6:40. This time I realized God wasn't letting me off the hook. If I was playing hookey, it would NOT be because I failed to wake up. Almost like He was saying, “You're awake. What are you going to do?”
Well, I felt rested and fine, so I got up and got ready and went in early, just like always, to practice with the team. Oddly, my body was rested but my mind was numb. I told God, “I hope You have a good reason for my being here.”
After practice the pastor approached me. He had this look in his eye that I've come to recognize. You see, I'd almost call him a victim of abuse. For more than 20 years he's been stuck at this church, running scared and fulfilling legalistic demands. He's told me that he asked God over and over to release him from this church and let him go somewhere he could really help people. Because for 20 years God has been giving him ideas for helping to release people from their legalistic bondage and for 20 years people have been shooting down his ideas.
Four years ago I started going to this church—it's about the time he started saying, “I don't care. If God's giving me ideas, I'm going for it.” And our church has been changing into a much more dynamic, fluid place. But you can still see the victimization when he comes up with an idea and he's afraid you're going to shoot it down.
So he had this idea. He said he was really sorry he just came up with it yesterday, and he knew we hadn't had time to prepare, but could we do this dramatic reading of scripture, and if we couldn't that was fine, and.....
Well, his idea was really doable, and I presented it to the first praise team member I ran into and we did this reading and it turned out really well. In fact, it turned out to be a real “God thing,” and, I suppose, gave me a purpose for showing up at church this morning. If nothing else, our pastor has a little more courage to step out next time God gives him an idea and there's no time to plan for it.
So it was communion Sunday. Ah, communion. That last pocket of resistance where legalism and meaningless ritual retains a tight grip. I know communion, or mass, is a ritual fraught with meaning, but as with all ritual it can lose its meaning if you never remind yourself of that meaning. And there's this tight “deacon” hold on communion. I mean it. Once a month our Baptist church puts on a liturgical dance. The same one every month. First all the deacons line up on the front row wearing their best suits. They all kind of glance at each other so they can sit down simultaneously. The pastor says a few words over the elements—first the bread, or mini-crackers, and then they stand up as a unit. They pass a sliver of bread to every person in the church. We wait quietly, examining our lives to ferret out any stray sins that need to be turned over to God. The deacons return to the front. They put down the bread. They sit as a unit. We eat the bread. Then we start over with the wine—or juice, I should say. In Baptist church you use juice.
Now I have to say, once they've passed the bread out to all those people, most of those who are going to examine their lives already have. And believe me, this morning I had plenty of badness to examine—my heart was still playing hooky, even if my body had made it to church. Honestly I did confess as best I could during the bread part. But--we must go through with the ritual a second time for the “juice,” eyes closed, looking like we're examining ourselves again, while all the time we're thinking of sports or lesson plans or of not spilling juice on our clothes. This time I decided to nix the meaningless hypocrisy and open my eyes and just wait, so I did. I was up front with the praise team, and so while I tried to respect peoples' privacy, my eyes wandered around the room.
There was my friend, here at church, even though she was in the midst of divorce—a life crisis that puts my bad week in perspective. And back there on the fifth row back was “O.” with his family. A few weeks ago that family turned up at our church, all with eyes as big as saucers, looking shell-shocked and in pain. It turns out O. recently tried to shoot himself. He survived, but the shock and trauma drove him and his family back to church. And so O. is trying to re-learn the skills that a bullet took from his brain. His speech is slow but good now and his short-term memory is coming back, and he'll probably be getting surgery soon to mend the torn rotator cuff in his shoulder. But O. and his wife are back with God now, and thankful that he survived even as he deals with the aftermath.
And there in the back were my beloved Korean students with their mom, here at church in spite of the sting of their experience, here to find some healing—here together with a larger family that tries our best to transcend cultures. And as I looked at my “juice” in a little cup, I realized that the one thing that pulls us all together in this imperfect building full of imperfect people, besides the need for healing, is a thread of blood. A thread that binds the hurting, the displaced, the tired, the misunderstood. What pulls us all together and heals us is the blood of Christ that we celebrate in a ritual. A ritual that has meaning when we reach out and allow Him to cover our badnesses with His blood.
So when the deacons returned, glanced furtively at one another and sat down as a unit, the pastor said his words over the cup and we all drank together. And this time I think I got it.
First was the hearing which brought home to us all that my friends are really going through divorce—the point at which people begin to lose hope that it could all go away and things could get better. For weeks now every time I go to pray, or connect with God, I feel that pressure behind the eyes that tells you you're on the verge of tears. Friends' pain can be a heavy burden.
Then there was the brochure photography job, which at another time might have been great fun, but coming at my yearly peak of burnout (the school year is coming to a close, but there's a Spring Program yet to do), it's with mixed feelings that I take on anything.
Then two students near and dear to me left in a clash of two cultures. Two of our Korean students skipped out this past week and may not come back. I was in the process of ordering nice pennywhistles for them to take back to Korea, but now they're unexpectedly gone. I invested a great deal of my week trying to explain what I know of Asian culture to the school administrators, but I don't think I made much headway.
And on Friday another of our students left because her mom can't afford private school any more. They live too far away to be able to afford the gasoline it takes to get here. This student is also my daughter's best friend. My daughter, who has never grasped how to make friends, finally got it, and had a good friend—who is gone now.
After school on Friday my kids went swimming with some friends, leaving me cleaning up my classroom and then choosing songs for Sunday. When I got done I took my heaviness down to the office. I knew I needed a good “sliver of time,” I needed to rejuvenate, and I had some time to myself. I asked the office personnel for ideas. The secretary suggested a haircut, but my stylist is busy and doesn't do walk ins. The pastor suggested I go turn on the sound system and play my guitar too loud—that's what he would do. That sounded like the best advice yet, but I amended it by grabbing a penny whistle instead. I also left the sound system off. The vaulted ceiling in there makes it a VERY nice place to whistle. I played for about an hour or so. You know, though, I'm frustrated with my playing right now. Life is too busy and I don't take enough time to practice, so when I DO practice I beat myself up for not being better. Still, a penny whistle played under a vaulted church ceiling is healing, even if played imperfectly. It helped some.
Friday nights I don't set my alarm. I relish sleeping until my body feels like waking up. At this point I had no hope that it would help, but it's my thing, so I didn't set my alarm. But sleep wasn't meant to happen that night. One of my kids was sick all night, and I was up with her, running back and forth with buckets and doing the mom thing.
All of this converged Saturday into one exhausted, burnt out human mother. I ran my healthy child to knitting class, picked around online here and there, and did little else. I did not nap. I don't know why.
Last night, then, I made a deliberate decision. I would not set my alarm to go to church. Roger could run the kids to church. I was playing hookey. I had no crucial part in any song the praise team was doing. They would be fine if I didn't make it.
So I woke up this morning at 6:22, my normal time. I sighed heavily and turned over. I woke up again at 6:30. I sighed and turned over again. I woke up again at 6:40. This time I realized God wasn't letting me off the hook. If I was playing hookey, it would NOT be because I failed to wake up. Almost like He was saying, “You're awake. What are you going to do?”
Well, I felt rested and fine, so I got up and got ready and went in early, just like always, to practice with the team. Oddly, my body was rested but my mind was numb. I told God, “I hope You have a good reason for my being here.”
After practice the pastor approached me. He had this look in his eye that I've come to recognize. You see, I'd almost call him a victim of abuse. For more than 20 years he's been stuck at this church, running scared and fulfilling legalistic demands. He's told me that he asked God over and over to release him from this church and let him go somewhere he could really help people. Because for 20 years God has been giving him ideas for helping to release people from their legalistic bondage and for 20 years people have been shooting down his ideas.
Four years ago I started going to this church—it's about the time he started saying, “I don't care. If God's giving me ideas, I'm going for it.” And our church has been changing into a much more dynamic, fluid place. But you can still see the victimization when he comes up with an idea and he's afraid you're going to shoot it down.
So he had this idea. He said he was really sorry he just came up with it yesterday, and he knew we hadn't had time to prepare, but could we do this dramatic reading of scripture, and if we couldn't that was fine, and.....
Well, his idea was really doable, and I presented it to the first praise team member I ran into and we did this reading and it turned out really well. In fact, it turned out to be a real “God thing,” and, I suppose, gave me a purpose for showing up at church this morning. If nothing else, our pastor has a little more courage to step out next time God gives him an idea and there's no time to plan for it.
So it was communion Sunday. Ah, communion. That last pocket of resistance where legalism and meaningless ritual retains a tight grip. I know communion, or mass, is a ritual fraught with meaning, but as with all ritual it can lose its meaning if you never remind yourself of that meaning. And there's this tight “deacon” hold on communion. I mean it. Once a month our Baptist church puts on a liturgical dance. The same one every month. First all the deacons line up on the front row wearing their best suits. They all kind of glance at each other so they can sit down simultaneously. The pastor says a few words over the elements—first the bread, or mini-crackers, and then they stand up as a unit. They pass a sliver of bread to every person in the church. We wait quietly, examining our lives to ferret out any stray sins that need to be turned over to God. The deacons return to the front. They put down the bread. They sit as a unit. We eat the bread. Then we start over with the wine—or juice, I should say. In Baptist church you use juice.
Now I have to say, once they've passed the bread out to all those people, most of those who are going to examine their lives already have. And believe me, this morning I had plenty of badness to examine—my heart was still playing hooky, even if my body had made it to church. Honestly I did confess as best I could during the bread part. But--we must go through with the ritual a second time for the “juice,” eyes closed, looking like we're examining ourselves again, while all the time we're thinking of sports or lesson plans or of not spilling juice on our clothes. This time I decided to nix the meaningless hypocrisy and open my eyes and just wait, so I did. I was up front with the praise team, and so while I tried to respect peoples' privacy, my eyes wandered around the room.
There was my friend, here at church, even though she was in the midst of divorce—a life crisis that puts my bad week in perspective. And back there on the fifth row back was “O.” with his family. A few weeks ago that family turned up at our church, all with eyes as big as saucers, looking shell-shocked and in pain. It turns out O. recently tried to shoot himself. He survived, but the shock and trauma drove him and his family back to church. And so O. is trying to re-learn the skills that a bullet took from his brain. His speech is slow but good now and his short-term memory is coming back, and he'll probably be getting surgery soon to mend the torn rotator cuff in his shoulder. But O. and his wife are back with God now, and thankful that he survived even as he deals with the aftermath.
And there in the back were my beloved Korean students with their mom, here at church in spite of the sting of their experience, here to find some healing—here together with a larger family that tries our best to transcend cultures. And as I looked at my “juice” in a little cup, I realized that the one thing that pulls us all together in this imperfect building full of imperfect people, besides the need for healing, is a thread of blood. A thread that binds the hurting, the displaced, the tired, the misunderstood. What pulls us all together and heals us is the blood of Christ that we celebrate in a ritual. A ritual that has meaning when we reach out and allow Him to cover our badnesses with His blood.
So when the deacons returned, glanced furtively at one another and sat down as a unit, the pastor said his words over the cup and we all drank together. And this time I think I got it.
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