Mongolian Rain

Some days failure just feels front and center. Disappointment. Rejection. Coming up short. Painful and familiar.

Tonight I opted for one of my best go-to settings for a reboot—me alone at the piano. I cried it out while I sang truths that needed to be voiced: He knows my name. Before the throne of God above, I have a strong and perfect plea. There is a Redeemer.

Somehow I ended up in the key of G, and perspective began to right itself again as I belted out my confession that He is exalted, forever exalted, and I will praise Him. With praise that might not be pretty to anyone else. Another day I will sing from a place of strength. But tonight I will defiantly choose this as my offering that costs me something.

Funny how God uses certain triggers to pull up an earlier round of the same battle from decades ago.

One summer of my youth I joined a program to study foreign language in Asia. I spent most of those months in the bed with digestive issues, broke up with a guy I thought I might marry, and failed to make friends with local students as I had hoped.

Not my best game.

There were two saving graces. One was a little lady with a refrigerated cart in the zoo down the street. She sold Sprite.

I couldn’t get there more than once a week, if that. But after too many days in the sweltering heat with only hot tea to drink, it quenched something deeper than thirst. This was relief.

One day her cart malfunctioned—to my advantage. The Sprite was frozen in the center. Ice! It had been so long since I drank something really cold. And so God showed mercy to a spoiled American.

The other saving grace was that I found the piano practice rooms at the university. And no one seemed to mind if I used them. They were probably bugged like everything else. But I figured if someone wanted to eavesdrop on my worship time, so be it. I wasn’t endangering anyone else, and without this outlet I just might have lost my grip. I sang and played and coped.

God was gracious to provide cold Sprite and a piano. They were anchor proofs to let me know He had not abandoned me.

But I hadn’t come here just to survive the summer. I didn’t want to squander this opportunity. Yet I couldn’t see that I was accomplishing anything for the sake of the Kingdom. Would this whole episode count only as a sad waste? A multi-level failure in relationships, health, mission? Sigh.

Toward the end of the summer, the university sponsored a three-day excursion for its American students. They put us on an overnight train to a region of Mongolia.

The hills we crossed through didn’t match anything I’d ever seen. The fields were dotted with occasional workers in circular, pointed hats. I wondered how they would ever hear the name of Jesus, as I whizzed past, incapable of stopping.

At daybreak the train halted to load and unload passengers. We still had several hours to go. Rain fell outside my window.

Before we had boarded, a teammate presented me with a precious gift. All summer she had saved some packets of instant General Foods International Coffee. She shared one with me.

I held the treasured cup of coffee now in both hands as I looked out the rain-streaked window and wondered, literally, where in the world I was. And how my being here would ever make a difference.

We finally arrived at the provincial capital city.

A bus, complete with tour guide, drove us over dusty roads with expansive vistas. We arrived at the city center and disembarked at a surprisingly modern high-rise hotel. Our lunch stop.

The building was circular, with a nice ground floor that included a grand piano and many sofas.  All the rooms faced an atrium, overlooking this ground floor. We sat around on the sofas, chairs, and ground, looking up at all the floors in the round above us.

Eventually the hotel staff spoke to our tour guide, who translated to our team leaders. There had been a miscommunication regarding the calendar. They were unprepared for such a large group, and it would be some time before the food was ready. (Translation: Someone just headed out the back door for the farmers’ market. It’ll be a while.)

The forty of us sat around some more.

Finally one of the guys asked the tour guide to accompany him to the front desk.

“There’s a girl on our team who plays the piano,” Chris began. “Would it be all right if she played while we wait for our food?”

You must understand, to put this in context, that I am no piano virtuoso. I admire those who are, but I am simple.

The hotel staff agreed to Chris’ request.

This fine, beautiful instrument was situated on a bit of a platform in the middle of the atrium, which let its music rise to the very top floors.

Ready or not, I sat down on the bench.

Classical music had gone by the wayside for me years earlier. I had been more interested in playing my Amy Grant book where I could sing along. In preparation for this summer, when I wouldn’t be permitted to sing such things out loud, I had learned some instrumental arrangements of a few songs that weren’t brazenly Christian.

John Denver was popular in this country. And his songs were easy enough to memorize. They were acceptable fare in the situation. I just tried to think about the Holy Spirit filling up my senses and sending sunshine on my shoulder. It was the best I could do.

I began to play.

And people came out of their rooms to lean over the balconies and listen.

I played Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and wished that somehow I could explain Jesus to these people—He laid His life down to bridge the chasm between us and God. My prayer rose with the instrumental music.

But I was running out of songs.

I was not, however, running out of audience or time.

Noodling around a little on the last few chords, my hands kept improvising while my mind frantically scrambled for options.

Suddenly it dawned on me.

If I began to play “He Is Exalted,” every one of the 40 members of my team would know exactly what I was doing. And odds were one in a few million that anyone else in this building would recognize the song.

I started the first distinguishable phrases:

He is exalted

The King is exalted on high

I will praise Him

I made eye contact with the head leader seated on a couch across the way. My eyebrows were asking, “Do you see where I’m headed with this? Is this ok?”

Molly got it. She smiled and gave me a nod.

It didn’t take more than another measure for the rest of the team to add their hearts to worship, forty-fold strong. I played every modern worship chorus I could think of.

At one point Molly sent someone over to whisper, “Probably not ‘Amazing Grace’ or anything else really old and well-known. Otherwise, keep going.”

Some team members closed their eyes. Some wept. We had not participated in any corporate worship all summer. Now we were doing it publicly, without words.

For two glorious hours we lifted voiceless praise well past the skylight. Heaven knew. The scattered audience overlooking us? I can only hope they felt the presence of the One we worshiped.

The food was ready. We ate and returned to the bus, full on many levels.

If I had come all this way for the privilege of leading one unexpected worship service, it was all worth it.

The tour guide was smiling as we rolled down the road.

“You are lucky people,” he announced to us. “You bring good luck to our city. We have a drought. For seven years no rain. But it rains today while you eat lunch.”

I wished for some discreet opportunity that someone on our team might be able to explain to him Who gave the rain.

It would be for others to plow here and to plant. But God had come with us to the inner reaches of Mongolia. We worshiped Him in that place. And He broke open the skies, receiving our worship and pouring out His blessing.

I would not be the same. I prayed this land would not be either.

And, tonight, decades later, God is still accepting broken sacrifices of worship and triggering the old story lines to say that He hasn’t quit me yet.