Just outside my front door, a cricket winds up and sings to the sunrise. It’s a boisterous melody, filing the space with rhythm and tone. It hard to hear or think about anything else as the tiny bug makes himself known far and wide. The cricket is unknown, I’ll never find it and it’s virtually indistinguishable from the kabillion other crickets that overwhelm Texas summer mornings with out eighth-note fills or audacious 1/32 note runs. There’s only simple, relentless, song.
The cricket chirps of the lavish, creative, goodness of God. Up early, the cricket worship already in progress, is a chirping reminder that I am fashioned to worship with my own unique song. The song placed in my heart is reflected in my being. I cannot chirp like the bug, nor can I whistle like the sparrow. God knows I can’t sing like the missus. But He has give me a brain, so I can seek and comprehend truth. He has given me words, so I can tell of His goodness, love, character, and nature. These are MY instruments of worship.
My little friend’s tireless song makes no sense to me, and until I started writing, he was little more than an extreme distraction and most of my thoughts revolved around how best to locate and squash him. Even still, every time my fingers stop pecking, all I hear is the tireless, chirping, noise. Like I said, I don’t get it, but it’s not mine to get. He’s not singing to me or for me. The bug must worship. I’m glad he didn’t quit singing this morning. If he had, I probably would have pressed right into my own plans, made my own way through what I wanted to do, finished, and moved on. Instead, the symphony beyond my door reminded me that Jesus was serious when He said the very stones would worship Father if the people didn’t.
Today I’m left wondering whether I will worship half as well as that cricket.
