The Lord enjoys to hear it... ~ Holy Experience

Those thick Dutch fingers, farm worn and time-tested, have pecked again, one small key at a time, pressed send.

Good morning, all,

Yes checking how it is with you all, for the rest of the fam, if the chicken pox moved in.

Its to be 81 f today, and cold again for the weekend.

I have enjoyed all of you here, the singing hymns after the meals was so good, keep it up all of you. The LORD enjoys to hear it.

Is all well in the barn ?

I put all the bikes away till the next time, Lord willing.

Love you all, Grandpa.

I read Dad Voskamp’s lines, I'm there again with him in the warmth. Yes, Dad, it was good to sing to Jesus with you too.

And there again, I can hear him in the morning, in the deep dark before dawn.

The notes come barely. They wake us and we lay still, listening, Higher, then lower, tentatively, then a string of notes, the melody.

“At the Cross?” I whisper. Farmer Husband cups closer.

“I think so.” His soft words brush my ear.

We lay there under the covers, under the black before morning's radiant entrance, listening to harmonica warble praise song.

“He's like David..." I whisper over shoulder to that warm man pressed near. "What's the verse? Something like...

'Awake, my soul! Awake, harp and lyre! I will awaken the dawn.'

He's waking the world with worship."

The sun hasn’t broken the horizon, and the house rises and falls with sleep breaths of children, and in the lamp light of his room, Dutch father-in-law breathes into his harmonica, breathes out hymns to Father.

At the breakfast table, glasses emptied of fresh orange juice and tummies filled with fruit, Levi will bring the hymn books, like he does at home after each meal, and ask, “What ones can we sing with you, Grandpa?”

And Grandpa will chuckle, tell Levi just to pick a hymn.

“You begin and I’ll just see if I can follow along.”

Levi will flip about, indecisive, then set upon “Count Your Blessings” and Farmer Husband will lead and we’ll sing softly, so that silver bird in Grandpa’s burly hands might pipe pure and sweet.
The notes will trill and we will fill with the naming of the blessings. I’ll look around at all their faces, hear their voices.

Farmer Husband rests his bandaged hand in his lap, holds the hymn book with the other. He’s far from the cold that can damage the nerve endings of his thumb’s severed tendons, from the work that would lure him to use the swollen hand.

This is a blessing.

The growing boy bodies who’ve slept much and eaten little the last few days have exposed the reason: raised blisters across ribbed torsos. Yes, there'll be no swimming and yes, relentless itching, fevers and soda baths, but we can still count.

We’re sick in sun instead of snow.

This is a blessing.

“Count your many blessings, name them one by one….” Malakai’s off-tune and Shalom is wiggling to get off my knee and Caleb’s wincing and itching at his scalp, but we are together and we are singing.

Grandpa will make the mouth organ lilt and we can always sing.

This too is a blessing.

I smile at the memory, read Dad's note again, glance up at the clock. 5:40 am. He'll be getting up about now. He'll be turning on that lamp, kneeling at bedside with Bible, giving the first of the day to God.

And then the harmonica and he will sing to Jesus.

No one else has yet broken with the pox, Dad, sows milking well at the barn, down to 10F tonight and a snowfall warning out... and yes, we'll be singing here too, Dad, singing here too.