Saturday, March 24, 2012

Ev'rything I Own

According to a newspaper article I read some time last week, an earworm is “a piece of music that sticks in one's mind so that one seems to hear it, even when it is not being played.”

I have an earworm infection.

“I would give anything I own
Give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give ev'rything I own
Just to have you back again”

I know where my particular worm came from. It didn’t just arrive out of the blue like some other earworms that I know. It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. You might not have sent me a card but I will not hold it against you. I must have mentioned on a previous birthday or Christmas list that I would like a Bread CD. My best friend at school was given the LP and we played it many times. My husband acknowledged that he was a closet Bread fan when he was younger too.

I got it for my birthday this time around and last weekend while driving over the bridge to Skye for a weekend break it was playing in the car. It has also been playing on my laptop.

So, yes, I know my earworm history. tells me that it was written by David Gates as a tribute to his father. It is not hard to perceive a spiritual comparison to some of the lines. 'You sheltered me from harm, kept me warm, gave my life to me, set me free,' – perfectly describes what God has done for me – the giving life and the setting free.

The earworm isn’t singing that bit – just the chorus.

What would I really give up “my life, my heart, my home” for? The answer tumbles out, just as swiftly as a bar of chocolate from a vending machine when you have put in the right money and pushed the buttons. It’s a given. God!

It’s like the string you pull at the back of the baby doll to get it to say “Mama”.

But saying the words and living the words can be two entirely different things. Sometimes I am just giving lip service. I say that “my life, my heart and my home” belong to God – but then I ration them out sparingly for His use.

“Ev’rything I own” is a very lavish response. It is extravagant. It is not carefully measured out. It reminds me of a poem that I wrote many years ago.


A passion burns within my heart
That words fail to describe
I yearn to find a better way
To show you what's inside

A priceless jar, with precious oil
Held in my trembling hand
I break and empty at your feet
And know you'll understand

As fragments fall, I'm broken too
And what's inside spills out
That you accept this worship act
I have no cause to doubt

The jar cannot be mended or
What was inside restored
I cannot claim the treasure back
Upon your feet I poured

A sweet and fragrant perfume now
Pervades this holy place
And You, the source of my delight
Will meet me face to face

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