Hissing Kettles

After several years of intense personal growth that happened to converge into a family narrative, us womenfolk in the Hyatt family seem to have emerged. Sounds like a grand enlightenment tale, but I assure you it's not. Instead it is more like a simpleton's claim to wealth. A happy dance of sorts.

 Over the five days that we were all home together, we sang, danced, cooked, played, ran, prayed, decorated and retold the major mountain climbs, half marathon runs and funny babysitting stories from the past three months. We realized we had all lost or gained like 2 pounds, changed the colors & cuts of our hair, and maybe even bought a new shirt or dress. 

But peel back the exterior.

Something inside is awakening.

Mom graced us with her piano playing. And since our house is like a big wooden box, sounds resonate. The harmonies of our sisterly voices reverberated off the organic materials that dad has collaged into our haven of a house.

"Dress down your pretty faith. Give me something real.
Leave out the thee and thou and speak to me now. 

Speak to my pain and confusion. 

Speak through my fears and my pride. 

Speak to the part of me that knows I'm something deep down inside. 

...

And I woke up this morning and realized that Jesus is not a portait. 

Or stained glass windows or hymns or all the tradition that surrounds us. 

And I thought it would be hard to believe in 

But it's not hard at all. 

To believe I've sinned and fallen short of the Glory of God. 

...

And He's not asking me to change in my joy for martyrdom 

He's asking to take my place. 

To stand in the gap that I have formed 

With His real, and His sweet, and His real amazing grace. 

And it's not just a sign or a sacrament. 

It's not just a metaphor for love. 

The blood is real and it's not just a symbol of your faith." 

"Awakening" by Sara Groves

In that moment, our borrowed bodies produced praise. Then the Spirit led us to catharsis. It was not a flaring forth sort of revelation. It kind of just oozed out. Like when the steam starts to swirl out of the kettle top: low and softly pitched, rising higher and more intensified. Then hissing begins to scream, announcing a boil. 

Like the steam twining from the spout of the kettle, God wafts our gratitude into His nostrils as He sits on the heavenly throne.

His martyrdom is our joy.

These earthly hardships are momentary trifles. Each of our warrior autobiographies all end with His victory. And we can rest in the assurance of a pardon that turns prayer wholly into praise. 

The Lord will sustain us, because He is our lifeblood. The death blow delivered to the Enemy when Christ died a burglar's death has enabled us to sing through our emptiness, "Glory to God." 

Our stories are written into songs.