Introverted Sundays ~ an unintentional dispensation on worship and emotions

One of my internet friends has been tackling the phrase 'worship experience' lately along with probing the idea that worship is something we "feel" or an environment we can create on Sunday mornings.



As a person with a more reserved personality, this topic resonates with me and while I never feel that I have the answers, I am learning to join the conversation.



My churched background has afforded many opportunities to feel pressure from the platform or my gathering of friends to 'perform' worship in a way that is more visible and animated than my comfort level.



I have prayed beside people offering their prayers in tongues unknown.

I have been told that my faith was only genuine if I was willing to pick up a snake. (There were no snakes present in the Kroger where this conversation occurred, thankfully - but it was a real conversation)

I have scoffed at fog machines and cameramen running across the stage to get the next shot.

I have scoffed at three piece suits and kicked up sawdust.

I have heard seminary students be offered a little cash incentive to whoop and holler, to loosen up and help set the tone of a 'Baptistcostal' service.

I have felt the strain of an extended alter call when the desired emotional response was not forthcoming.

I have had a pastor fix his gaze on me specifically and say "Everyone raise your hands" when I was the only one in the room not raising my hands.



This has led to a strange sort of resistance anytime there's an audible directive from a worship leader or song lyric to "...just lift my hands toward Heaven and praise the Lord..."



If I was going to (which I probably wasn't) now there's no question that I won't be able to because you told me to... it's too much like *Simon Says now and not enough like genuine expression.



I start thinking about those Pharisee guys who prayed to be heard and contorted their faces as visual evidence of their spirituality. I think about closets and how that's where we're told to do our praying. I lean back into my personality type - one who brings a book to a football game. There's very little I get worked up about in the first place, my feelings are anchored to a concrete post of reasonableness and decorum.



And yet, when I see a withered old hand lifted to Heaven in the midst of a song, I find it beautiful and moving (internally- because, as I have established, I'm a stick in the proverbial mud)



I have heard an old woman's hallelujah and been encouraged that if the Lord was faithful to her, I can also trust Him.



I've been learning some stuff recently, here's some of it:



Worship can involve an emotional response from me. It rarely evokes a visible response.



Sometimes this response is present on Sunday morning, during the set time we sing and pray. Other times, it is Monday in my car or on the shower floor, and sounds more like questions or despair.



Many times, everything feels flat and doesn't seem to touch me at all.

I'm finding the consistent factor in that scenario is often me.



Did I go to bed at a decent hour on Saturday night? Do I have coffee gut? Am I actively participating or going through the motions? Are there issues I'm refusing to surrender to God? Did I greet a lot of people on my way in? Wouldn't I rather just go hide in the nursery or take a nap in the puppet booth this morning?  (the answer to this one is almost always yes)



When the answer is yes, I might as well be watching The Rockafire Explosion. ( Confession: sometimes, my visible response in church is to smirk at the thought of our musicians dressed up as The Rockafire Explosion.)



I remember as a kid trying to see the circuitry under the drummer dog's sleeve. I remember one time the power went out and the animatronic band froze mid-song. I remember ascribing feelings and emotions to these robots based on what they had been programmed to sing and say. Even as a kid, it was easy for me to lose the forest for close observation of each tree.



Some Sunday mornings,  it's the same. I'm looking at all the shoes on stage or everyone's facial expressions. Who fought on their way here this morning? Why does everyone seem to raise their hands on the same note - did they rehearse that part, too? The music becomes secondary, a backdrop for robot observation.

But... I am also finding that, if I was in the trenches with my brothers and sisters this week... if I see this one who has been waking up under the wet blanket of anxiety all week with his hands aloft in as much a plea as decree that God is good, or a tear steal across my sister's cheek because of that thing she's been walking through.. I have found that I can actually feel that.



I can be confounded by an abundance of animation in one's worship style, but I am struck by the beauty of the contrast of it, too.



 Like watching a foreign film with subtitles; it is not my native tongue, but I am able to understand, especially the more of life I share in with my animated brothers and sisters.



Even when it comes from a struggle, I am finding that there can be an air of celebration when we purpose to lift our hearts as one, whether we lift our hands or not.



We aren't alone. We are here together, hopeful, grateful and unashamed.



Relationship is an essential key to feeling like a participant instead of an observer.

This is true in most things.



On Mother's Day, I was in church without some of my children. Their absence was more noticeable on this particular holiday and my situation is no secret.



 I'm not sure this Sunday was my first awareness  that everyone knowing my story was an act of public nakedness, but it was one day that I recall the vulnerability being heightened. Last year, I was given one of those little congregational awards for having the most children in attendance with me at church on Mother's Day. This year, I've been accused of being such a terrible mom that some of my children have stopped speaking to me. It's a story line I've been walking out in front of others, whether I wanted to or not.



And on that day, I felt a deeper sympathy and empathy for those who no longer have their mom. What I found was there were almost as many at church that day without their mom or with a strained relationship with their mom as those who were on their way to brunch with Mom.



Last year, I probably walked past just as many hurting people on my way to claim that prize without a thought at all about Mothers' Day for the motherless. Now, I see.



On Father's Day, when the importance of a godly dad was emphasized  and the plight of too many single moms proved bleak in the shared statistics, one friend, realizing that I may be hearing a more discouraging message than my well-married counterparts, texted me a compliment about being a good parent (yes, during the service - we're modern like that).

It was encouraging that I wasn't lost in the shuffle of that Sunday's theme. Someone was mindful of me and wanted to lift my countenance.



Getting to know those I experience worship with and allowing myself to be known by them, too has deepened the experience for me.



Having others come alongside me, draping their own garments over what has been laid bare, has stripped a layer of my life-long reserve.



I still get distracted by moving lights or something on-screen. I still get kind of scoffy at "setting an environment", but as I am getting to know my brothers and sisters who help with that, I understand better that they are bringing what they have to the table on Sunday mornings. They are sharing their time and talents. They are giving their best, at the very least, I can give grace.



I could get caught up in motivations- sometimes, being honest, I still do. There have been worship leaders in my life who wanted to go to Nashville and it showed (and no big surprise, they went to Nashville). That used to bug me a lot more than it does now, but I've had enough time to see that these aren't really issues. They are choices.



If I have chosen to worship with a group whose leader wants a recording label, I can wish him all the success that Amy Grant or Mercy Me has known, and for God's glory.



I may decide his skinny jeans and trending hair is too distracting to continue to meet together starting next week, but in this moment, even as he's doing something showy, I must choose to focus on why I am here, too. If I don't, I am as guilty as Mr. Nashville of putting on a show, only it is a smaller, more secretive show. Honestly, his show is at least entertaining, mine is just pathetic.



 Do I want the lens turned on me? Have I ever appreciated being judged as 'not worshipping' because my hands are in my pockets or my body language always naturally returns to a comforting and constricting arm cross? I must leave hearts to the one who can see them and focus instead on the boundless grace I've been given.



If you need me, I'll just be in the puppet booth, digging this log out of my eye.



This is not to say there's no place for making sure motives are right and worship is the true object of our gathering and activity,  but this is not a scathing discernment blog. It is more so a challenge to self to practice one of the first rules in critical thinking: start with the benefit of the doubt, ascribe no ill intent without cause. 

*~*

I am still the girl who gravitates to an outlying corner. I prefer holding up walls to hands. I will always be me, I bet. But I have had some expansion of my thinking on the subject in recent days.



I recently shared that I had finally embraced my "Type 9" diagnosis. One of the cautions for the nine personality types is to  "Remember you have a body as well as a soul"



Perhaps my movement level is affected by forgetting that I've been given a body as well as a soul - or some level of shame over my body that is also to blame for my complete lack of dancing ability.



I'm not sure. But what got me to thinking about it originally was not the personality test. It was David Bowie's video for Black Star.



In that video, the dancers' bodies move in an unearthly way. It is almost disturbing. The movements are coupled with imagery that goes on to push the whole thing over the line into 'actually disturbing'.



I'm sure that 'unease' was part of Bowie's artistic goal. His inclusion of a mock crucifixion, for whatever other statement being made, created a link in my mind between bodily movement and spiritual themes.



It made me think of all the stories I'd heard about spiritual forces seeking to invade the human realm and footage of supposed supernatural "possessions" I had seen featuring human bodies moving in unnatural ways, but always with little control or direction.



I thought of the demoniac in the Bible, unable to stay clothed and bent on self harm.



I considered 'worship' may be the genuine article being counterfeited by dark entities. My thinking was turned to rocks and trees crying out...to the dancing, undignified King David and to that notoriously long list of instruments in Psalms which we are told to use in praise.



Then, this song came along and directed my thinking some more...

If the stars were made to worship so will I

If the mountains bow in reverence so will I

If the oceans roar Your greatness so will I

For if everything exists to lift You high so will I

If the wind goes where You send it so will I

If the rocks cry out in silence so will I

 ~*~

I've been given a body as well as a soul, and I have full autonomy.

I have hands that clap and raise and can offer comfort to others.

My voice can raise a hallelujah or whisper out a desperate plea.

I am not a special edition human, devoid of tears - I have them; sometimes from sorrow, but at other times, gratitude and joy.



I can allow my body to reflect what my soul is navigating. In doing so, I may just encourage someone else looking on "If God has been faithful to her, I can trust Him also"

I remember a recent moment when something felt different as we sang together 

 "...this is how I fight my battles..."

The lady singing that day shared that she hadn't really wanted to sing the song, even as more and more people suggested she should sing it. She had, quite frankly, been wondering where God even was these days. She shared some of her story and the reasons she had been struggling with questions too big for any of us to answer. And then, she sang the song in an act of obedience and faith. 

Before the song ended, I thought some of our group might actually take to the streets, ready to fight every injustice we came across. 

We do have a large number of military and retired military families, so there is always the risk of marching, but I believe the palpability came from singing through the hurt and in our singing with her. 

"It may look like we're surrounded, but we're surrounded by You..." 

Like the exchange of oxygen with trees, she was reminding us of truth and, in an instant echo, truth was exhaled back into her own lungs... 

As I looked around the room that day, I realized that I was singing for all their sakes as much as for mine. I love them. I want them to be okay. I want to see God move on their behalf. You wouldn't have known it to look at me, but I felt something. Surely it was emotion. 

And surely it was worship.

*~*

The last thing I'll share about is a personal paradigm shift: allowing what I'm singing to be personal. 

I learned a long time ago that remembering my own pit and living with gratitude for my rescue was spiritually transformational. 

In one congregation, we sang "How Deep The Father's Love For Us" almost every week. I remember my attention settling on the line "...ashamed I hear my mocking voice, cry out among the scoffers"  (which is the purpose of that line- to implicate us) 

Letting that line be about me has been transformational, indeed. 

Remembering the pit from whence I was lifted is good, but I've been finding that falling into a fresh pit and needing new rescue is also an effective method for converting my worship into high definition. 

I've been walking through a season of suffering and loss. 

I've been accused and left exposed. 

I've needed the services of a human advocate. 

I've had case stated to a judge. 

I've had my physical and financial needs met.

I've been shown mercy. And grace. 

I've been met in the road by my dad - who came running from a long way off. 

I have been given a robe and ring and there's to be a big party.

These things have come to life. They have given me a physical glimpse of spiritual concepts. I've experienced being defended, being in need and being provided for.  I've seen new things about a father's love and experienced anew the deep, gulping relief found in being forgiven...again and again. 

I think my little legalistic heart needed to go into an actual legal setting to appreciate grace all the more.  

So, whether we are singing "...your love defends me..." "...you're a good, good father..." or any one of the many songs about the goodness we've received, I've got newfound appreciation for the words that are coming out of my mouth. They have been defined as I am being refined. 

I'm still the girl quietly wringing my hands behind my back, but like a wooden puppet becoming human, I can't lie: I felt my heart leap at the wonder of it all.  

"...If You gladly chose surrender so will I"

broken

The listing read "Stitch me back together." It was a hand-turned vessel, made from grapevine, that had cracked under pressure.  It caught my attention. I am drawn to finding beauty in broken things because I am a broken thing. If we were to have a show of hands, I'm probably not the only one.

So it was that I adopted this broken vessel as a kind of self-portrait.

When it arrived, I discovered 'FRAGILE' apparently means something like 'Please shake til glass breaks' in post office speak. The test tube had shattered. While it retained its shape, it would not retain water. What's more, it was not keen on leaving its cozy wood lodgings; it was stuck. The two vessels were broken individually and together. 

Yesterday, I finally found a chance to sit alone with 'myself' and consider the broken vessel. 

Before contemplation: 

I started to use gold paint with kintsugi in mind, but rather quickly had a different inspiration.

After contemplation: 

Faults hold worlds only appreciated by drawing near.

I wanted the shattered glass to find redemption, too. I fashioned a small candle from a trimmed wick and the scrapings of soft wax from a candle. I let my little light shine. 

You'll notice that the light is most visible where the vessel is most splintered. 

When the flame was extinguished, a beautiful, relaxing smoke curled up and up for the longest time. I do love that smoky scent. I could burn incense here too, if incense smelled good. 

I am eagerly awaiting the next package from my woodworking friend, Brock. It is a bowl with a hole already in it! 

Though most of his work does not come pre-blemished, you should check out his wares.

But I call dibs on the misfits. 

Shine On

Last night, I accompanied Fisher to volunteer as a buddy at Night To Shine- an event to serve and celebrate the special needs community. We were at the Christ Church location in Jax. Oh, what a night. If you can name an emotion, it was available somewhere on the premises. Of the many impressions the night made on me, these are the thoughts still lingering in the afternoon aftermath of the following day.

*UPDATE- It has taken an extra day and a half to edit and upload this post properly. 

 >>Fisher<<

 This past year, Fisher and I discussed that he has a soft place in his heart for the special needs community. When two of his particular heroes (Brant Hansen & Tim Tebow)  both promoted Night To Shine, it seemed providential to participate. I hope that the desire to love and serve others is a quality that continues to snowball downhill into his life.

 >>Valor<<

These are real men. Manly men. Valiant leaders who love and serve others. The sort I hope will find my daughters in years to come and the kind I hope my sons continue to become. Because, it is indeed becoming.

 >>Virtue<<

And these are the sort of gals I hope my three sons seek to find, the kind of ladies I hope my daughters remain.  Compassionate and patient, the sort unafraid to take the hand of an underdog and dance the night away. Because, as it turns out, we are all underdogs.

 >>Value <<

From where I was standing, we never knew who was walking in on the red carpet. And it didn't matter- we were there to cheer and celebrate everyone.  We would hear applause rising from outside and watch as each new guest rode a wave of celebration in the door. Lord, help this be my default position with everyone I meet.

>>Take Care<<

 I really hoped that parents and caretakers felt clapped for as well... because I was celebrating them too. While we enjoyed working together as a team of volunteers to throw a party for a few hours, and while we could all grin and shake our heads at how much energy was expended to pull it all off, it is the caretakers who attend the needs of our guests on a daily basis. It isn't festive nor glamorous. There aren't a team of volunteers. Every day is not a dance floor, but every day they extend their energies once more. They are faithful, tenacious people and they have my applause.

>>Silent Applause<<

When we make up our mind to, we can work together for the sake of even just one person. We can ascertain what is needed and adjust to accommodate.  Obviously this is true of a large event requiring volunteers and attention to details medical and minute. But the picture of cooperation and deference was most vivid to me when we had sound sensitive or hearing impaired guests make their entrance. Less than 50 ft stretched between us and the start of the red carpet. Even so, we were quick to assess which kind of applause was called for and adjust our clapping into silent waves accordingly.

 >>Kinfolk<<

Sometimes, "church" makes me break out in bouts of hives and 'to-Heck-with-its', other times I'm right proud to be kin. This was the kind of family gathering that made me beam...look at great aunt Sally serving carrots and there goes cousin George doing the Electric Slide... we were all there of one accord and it was beautiful.

>>Night To Shoe Shine<<

Shoe shining needs to make a comeback into our everyday lives. There'd be less call for bartenders if more folks kicked their day off with a shine. 

SIDENOTE: Fisher may have been the only fella donning white shoes at our location. At the end of the night, the shoeshine guys bestowed him with admiration and their sole can of white polish- unopened.

>>Big C, Little C<<

Best. Church. Service. Ever.

Seriously, why isn't this just another Sunday morning ? Aren't we celebrating then too? Then again, aside from some charismatic auditoriums, if this were a Sunday morning, we'd all be featured on an episode of Wretched, I have no doubt. 

* A bunny trail of additional thoughts were here but they were distracting, and anyway, I accidentally lost them while trying to find the least distracting place to footnote them. I know there are friends who will not be comfortable with the secular nature of this event. I have other friends who would mistakenly label those friends as legalistic. I get where both are coming from and find that I come down wobbly right on the blurry dividing line. I can be reached via comments or email if either party feels my two cents worth will help them sleep better tonight... ha! 

 >>Diamonds<<

Riley made a new friend, Renae. They both like Elsa and their conversations were filled with sporadic hugs. At the end of the night, as they said goodbye, Renae gave Riley her special Night To Shine medal. It was a gesture my first reflex was to protest ("Thank you, but that's your special medal to remember the night by.") and yet how could I interfere with such a selfless act of friendship? Rye wants me to set up a play date ASAP and spent the day writing many letters to her new friend.

She later expressed that her friend was 'just there for fun. I don't think she had special needs.'  Without labels, people are just friends. Children seem to grasp that a whole lot better than us older, supposedly wiser folks.

Everyone was wearing lanyards (you could even think of them as actual labels if you wanted to) - the volunteers wore them to declare what their specialty was, the buddies to identify their place alongside a party guest and the party guests to identify any diet or medical information the buddy might need to know.  At various stations throughout the night, I watched exchanges where volunteers weren't immediately clear who was who. In those moments, until a closer look at one's lanyard was taken, the presumption was to treat everyone with kindness and deference, as an invited guest.

In these fleeting moments, how we ought to behave towards each other was made breathtakingly clear, like diamonds held to light.

I still feel guilty about the medal.  

>>Candice <<

Riley needed a pit stop so we found ourselves in the ladies room just off the main dance floor. As we were washing hands to leave, a tall party guest in a beautiful purple dress and crystal tiara walked in looking very regal. She immediately smiled real big and threw her arms wide open. We hugged like old friends before she pulled back and said "I love you." I told her that I love her too...for indeed, instantly it was true. Her friend and I hugged as well. We all shared a wonderful chat about the fire alarm ("Don't touch it." said Candice, "I won't." I promised)

I thought briefly to take their picture before deciding against the ladies room as a backdrop. Though we crossed paths again I never did get to snap a picture with either of them. It is my only regret from the evening.

But such a nice exchange, I won't soon forget.

It made me realize that we were not in attendance as volunteers after all. We were exceptionally well paid to be there. As it turns out, we volunteers arrived with similar needs as our invited guests: friendship and unflinching love. All along we'd been under the impression we were there to meet their needs, but in the end, they had spent the evening meeting ours. 

We were made to feel welcome by a group of people who could've easily dismissed us over differences. We were invited to forget about our burden-laden selves and dance like no one was watching. We laughed and embraced, we sang and made many new friends. 

We were loved instantly, just the way we are. 

Where, this side of Heaven, can you find anything richer than that?

 

 

See More Photos From Night To Shine Jax 2016

The Hospitality Room

   

I let my full weight fall against Burger King's heavy glass door and pushed against it. By nature a fairly passive person, I knew the door would absorb my unusually forceful shove with no loss of dignity. I even imagined it welcomed me a little. Better doors than people. (or...doors are better than people?)

   We were en route to the bedside of a very sick relative and I knew we may not make it in time to say good bye.

   Over the course of the morning, I had morphed into a tiny black rain cloud, prone to outbursts like thunder claps and sudden showers that washed away any semblance of "strength".

    Once inside the ladies room,  I wiped away what streaked mascara could be budged and sighed a prayer of "please".

   I wasn't praying for extra time. I wasn't praying to get there. I was praying for peace and that all would be well with my uncle...soul wise...you know..."It is well...it is well...with my soul." And I was praying for my aunt who will most notice the drought of his showered affections.

   Back inside the car, I learned that my uncle had taken his leave. Just that quick. How closely my praying and his passing coincided, I'll likely never know, but there was a certain proximity that is hard for a person like me to ignore. 

   A person like me how exactly? I'm not sure there are words for that but... I keep the fortunes from my cookies sometimes if that helps.

The cloud expanded, showers persisted.

I'd lost my Keillor comrade, my Alaskan liaison. 89 is a long life, but not long enough for me to have gotten to hear all the stories I wanted to hear, have the conversations I wished to have. At Christmas, I'd known he knew we may be seeing each other for the last time- I'm the girl that rarely gets back home. He brought me his Clancy collection and some other books. We talked about kindles and nooks and the smell of old books. I told him I'd send him a copy of my friend's new book, a link to an NPR app. We hugged, said 'I love you' - not the worst farewell. But none of them are ever good.

   I was a sad little rain cloud.

   From the back seat came an urgent cry " I needago potty!" Rye's 4. She waits til the last possible minute. Preschool bladders have no regard for sombre moments.

   We stopped at the Nickel Pumper in Estill. She was wiggling she had waited so long. We got to the restroom but found an out-of-order sign on the door.

   "No other bathroom?" I asked the hunched over lady at the register. She grunted out something with a negatory sound and I saw that she wouldn't have the location of the employee restroom tortured out of her by the sight of a desperate little girl. She was indifferent to our plight.

   I scooped up my urgent urchin and made a bee line for... I wasn't really sure...but we had to get there fast wherever we were headed.

   Directly across from the filling station was an auto parts store. There were several men out front so I figured it was open. For the same reason -the all male cast out front- after I'd covered nearly half the distance, I heard my late grandfather's admonition "Might be dangerous for a lady."  Actually, he was shaking his head... but I knew exactly what he meant.

   I scanned the surrounding businesses, a Chinese restaurant to the left - no clear sign that they were open. Nothing else nearby held the promise of plumbing, no where else had a glowing neon OPEN sign like the auto parts store. Besides, we were at the front door now. No turning back.

   "Excuse me, sir" I approached the counter. He had already begun putting his conversation on pause when he saw me approaching. His customer was from Beaufort and it was clear that this shop owner knew his customers, is counted amongst their trusted friends. "Do you have a restroom this wee one might use? We stopped across the street but it is out of order."

   "You are welcome here ma'am. They've been playing that same game over there for twenty years."

   He excused himself from the customer and led us through the long shelves of auto parts inventory to the facilities we were so desperately in need of by this point.

   I've got to tell you...this bathroom was not only welcoming, it was downright cozy. Clean and well stocked, it smelled nice and was stylishly decorated. Not at all what one might expect to find in a place where motor oil is sold and men come in wearing it on their clothes.

   This surprise mingled with our gratitude at being granted admission had the effect of turning an ordinary, tasteful restroom in to a haven of rest.

   The antique sewing machine that served as a shelf also contained an "Our Daily Bread" booklet...Ah! Perhaps we are family...that would explain the undeniable feeling of welcome. I admit, I picked it up, let it fall open, looking for a glimpse of encouragement, a little silver to guild my edges.

   As Riley washed her hands, I thought about what I could possibly buy in this parts store. It is my standard road trip protocol to patronize whatever establishment we have made a pit-stop at. I always feel terribly guilty if I don't. I decided I would at least ask the gentleman's name and try to cast an eye about for something I recognized, to purchase.

   I introduced myself, he was Gary he said. I gave a brief overview of the travel situation that had led to us coming in to his store. I told him that his kindness, especially in the face of this bleak day, had been like a soothing balm. I thanked him and told him that if I knew what to buy, I certainly would purchase something.

   He objected at that. Absolutely not necessary.

"Anytime you're thru this way, you are welcome here." He realized that we may pass through again on our return trip (Estill is sort of a junction between country roads and cotton fields) He reiterated his warm welcome and sent me on my way with a business card.

As I crossed the road back to the Nickel Pumper, this quote ran through my mind:

"So shines a good deed in a weary world."

~ Willy Wonka. 

 

I felt hugged at a time when I really needed a hug...not that I would ever admit to needing anything...ever.

When I looked that quote up, I learned a slightly different version actually first appears in The Merchant of Venice...Willy Shakespeare.

So, now, I have to read MoV in the near future...just as soon as I can find a companion reader's guide to help me translate. Or perhaps I should see it on stage. (Uncle Roy loved the arts)  

Until then, I'd like to channel my best Paul Harvey voice to tell you that when you shop at your friendly C & N Auto Parts in Estill, SC you are shopping with good folks. With old fashioned customer service, fair pricing, quality work and staff who treat you like family, C & N Auto Parts in Estill,SC is a store that is worth the drive. So, stop by C & N Auto Parts for any and all of your automotive needs, and tell Gary I say hello. He's good people.

AutoAwesome Sunset

Whenever my phone finds a WiFi signal, it uploads my photos to Picasa.

Occasionally, I will remember to check Picasa for the "auto awesome" projects it creates for me.

My favorite are the animations. If that isn't already clear by now, stay tuned. . . the pattern will repeat itself enough in time. ..

The other day,  I took photos of the sun setting. Usually,  I don't even remember the Picasa feature but as I took these particular photos,  I remember thinking that I hoped an animation would be created from them.  I took extra to increase the chances [and also to make creating one myself easier if it didn't auto-create]

Given the time, I could probably create a longer version. However, I  have not been given any time that doesn't already belong to other responsibilities and projects at the moment, so I'm pleased as punch that my little wish was granted. 

Sunset

Downtown Marina

Fernandina Beach