Tuesday night, around 10:30.
The house was finally quiet.
I sat down at the piano — not to prepare for Sunday, not to write a song, not to practice.
Just to be with Him.
My hands found a simple chord.
Nothing impressive.
Nothing planned.
And something beautiful started to happen.
Not musically…
but internally.
There was a stillness.
A closeness.
That quiet, familiar sense of communion.
I remembered — this is why I fell in love with worship in the first place.
Not the leading.
Not the preparation.
Not the excellence.
Just… being with Him.
Lately, I’ve also been watching something unfold in my son.
Three weeks ago, he wasn’t especially interested in worship.
And then — something shifted.
No prompting.
No pushing.
Just hunger.
The other day, I walked past the living room.
Worship music was playing softly.
He was standing there, hands raised, looking out the window…
singing quietly to the Lord.
Not performing.
Not trying.
Just… loving Him.
He stayed there for a long time.
And as I watched, I felt something in me wake up.
Not conviction.
Not guilt.
Longing.
I remembered when I used to draw near just for the sake of drawing near.
Not to prepare.
Not to lead.
Not to produce something.
Just to be close.
Somewhere along the way, it’s easy for worship leaders to slowly trade communion for responsibility.
We still lead.
We still sing.
We still serve.
But that quiet oil…
that unseen connection…
can slowly thin out.
And then, in a simple moment — watching your son worship in the living room —
you remember.
This is where it all begins.
I started thinking about what it really means to be a worship leader.
Yes, it involves music.
Yes, it involves people.
But ultimately…
It’s about that intangible oil.
That atmosphere created when we draw close.
When we quiet down.
When we pause long enough to encounter Him.
You can’t manufacture that.
You can’t rehearse it.
It comes from communion.
I found myself praying quietly:
Lord, I don’t ever want to lose this.
And if I have… awaken it again.
Because very little else matters.
Everything flows from connection.
Then a picture came to mind.
A father with ten children sitting down for dinner.
Nine show up.
He smiles.
He’s grateful.
But there’s still an ache.
An empty chair.
Not because he’s angry.
Not because he’s disappointed.
But because he loves the one who isn’t there.
And I realized…
I don’t want to be the one missing.
Not out of fear.
But because I don’t want to withhold what He longs for.
Not because He needs me…
But because He delights in me.
There’s something only I can give Him.
Something only you can give Him.
Your voice.
Your affection.
Your attention.
Your presence.
I’m learning again:
We don’t draw near because it’s professional.
We don’t draw near because it’s expected.
We draw near because we love Him.
And because… He loves being with us.
See you next Friday.
