Songs 6000 miles away

On a dusty hill in Zambia sits a small chapel of old ragged red brick.  Though the door to the chapel has a lock on it, with a slight push the old weathered boards would give way.  The rusty hinges no longer can do the job so the door must be propped open with a rock.  Most of the window panes are broken or missing from many years of weather, children playing, or thieves.  The lace curtains which once had a quaint beauty, now hang ragged and yellow from age.  Yet they still hold some gracefulness while slowly swaying from the breeze entering the open window panes.  The benches are crudely hand carved with uneven legs which sway with a start when sitting.  The communion table must be covered with a small hand stitched table cloth to keep the flies from feasting.  The song books are tattered from years of use before they were donated to the chapel.  The pages are torn, yellow, and many are missing.  The binding hangs delicately by a few threads and struggles to contain what is left of the pages.  There is no air conditioning, no heater, no water fountain, no classrooms, and if one finds themselves needing to use the restroom, well you must go down the hill to the outhouse.

But early on a Sunday morning in this small chapel, when the benches hold more people than can handle, and the breeze is blowing through the broken window panes, and the tattered song books are opened, and the voices are raised in harmony, there is a feeling of being close to heaven. 

With eyes closed in meditation of song, with hands tapping the heart or folded in humble prayer, with faces toward heaven and tearful eyes, with natural harmony beyond comprehension, the voices raise the roof, move the clouds, and the songs soar to heaven. 

I pray that I may not lose the joy of songs 6000 miles away in a small chapel on a little dusty hill in Zambia.