Sunday Devotion

Rebeca Seitz

Beginning this week, I’d like to focus on a few insights gained from my recent attendance at Book Expo America in New York City. BEA is the largest publishing industry trade show in the world – and an exhausting endeavor.

I’m a regular traveler to NYC, so I was looking forward to this trip. NYC, in small doses, is a lot of fun even if the lights and noise of Times Square can put a person into sensory overload. If you’re ever in the city and stay in Times Square, I’d recommend either trying the Hilton (since it’s a few blocks away from the lights of the Square) or going over to Herald Square, where there are some smaller hotels, but you’re still within walking distance (about 12 blocks) of Times Square.

Anywho, when I walked into the convention center the first day, I stopped to drink it all in. Everywhere around me, people buzzed around like over-taxed bees. Tote bags already bulging with advance copies of future bestsellers hung from nearly every shoulder. Giant signs directed me to various levels of the center, depending on whether I’d like to visit the religion section, the African American section, etc. I breathed deeply, pulling into my being the essence of millions of book pages. Mmm, smelled heavenly.

I decided to visit the main show floor first and headed off in that direction with my friend, Karen Ball. Karen and I were like kids in a candy store with a $1,000 gift card. Everywhere we looked, stacks of books stood precariously, their top member being snatched, signed, and thrust into the hand of a waiting book-lover. Within fifteen minutes, the arms of us both were weighed down. We set off in search of those tote bags everyone else had.

Finding tote bags, Karen remembered a meeting she had to get to and peeled off down a crowded aisle. I turned in a circle, getting my bearings from the gargantuan signs looming overhead. Times Square boggles the eyes and ears – BEA confounds the heart and imagination.

I exited the floor, more to get my breath than anything, and made my way to the escalator. By the end of a long downward journey, I’d decided to grab a taxi back to the hotel, drop off my bounty, and return to the center for another round.

Twenty minutes later, gratefully swishing through the revolving door of my hotel, up two elevators, and through the door of my hotel room, I plopped down on the couch in our sitting area. I looked at the tote bag, its cotton weave taxed to the max by corners of tomes, and reflected on how many of us are called to write. Why was I creating story when the place I’d just left contained more than I could read in a year?

That thought came back to me just last night, as I visited (for the first time) the “youth” service at my church. The music was at a decibel that prevented me hearing the yell of my husband from a foot away. The first third of the pews was full of kids, some holding up signs proclaiming their love for certain band members. Five of us adults sat in the back, observing the explosion of a youth group, feeding off their wonder and excitement for a Savior who forgives and loves without reserve. At first, it was just that – observation – and then God did His thing.

Silence crashed into my mind, focus sharpened my gaze to the one behind a microphone. Previously known as our young-ish music minister with a heart of gold and love for church music, I struggled to reconcile the boyish man with a guitar strapped on and an arm pointed straight to the heavens as he sang of joining with the angels. His voice – pure, unadulterated joy – opened a window into the home of my Maker, and I was struck.

My suitcase coming home from BEA was full of books and my heart had been struggling to understand how/why any of us write when there are already so many performing the task.

Here was my answer – here, standing on a stage of a little church in a tiny town, ushering kids into the Presence of The One. This man, with his talent, is more than qualified to stand on a much larger stage, facing an audience of thousands, yet here he stands, giving all he has to share God’s presence with the 40 kids in front of him.

And it was breathtaking.
Absolutely.
Abundantly.
Achingly.
Breathtaking.
It was flesh, bowing to the will of the Spirit.
Without regard for the future, for the gain, for the purpose, even. Just blind submission to a call to worship through song.

I came home and looked at my suitcase of books, still laying in the hallway (my bookshelves are full). I thought of my looming deadline with B&H Publishing – July 1. And I shot up the stairs to get my laptop. My spirit was full of worship, and the flesh of my fingers was itching to respond.