I suppose I’m a quiet “praiser”. Not so much keep it to myself glory to God; but, not one to raise my hands during song or praise or prayer.

I tell you, it’s a beautiful thing to see, to be in the presence of.

Someone off in the distance or someone not distant at all whose eyes are closed in listening, worshipping, honoring mode and their hands won’t contain themselves…can’t hide their joy.

Oh, how I understand that joy.

I’m prone to soaking it all in, holding it close in my heart, my hands at my side, I may fold my hands like a little girl sayin’ the blessing and then I slowly open one hand and the other

And I might lift my palms toward heaven and give and receive.

Receive and then, give.

Praise.

Or mostly, I sit in the quiet that I find or am allowed and I write little notes to my Father, long or scribbled revelations of my growing, His grace, His protection.

Oh, how my pencil praises!

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him, all creatures here below.

My story, my song, praising in our own little ways all the day long.

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

The one who’s kept me close, kept me grounded while growing, pulled me from the dangerous edges when I’ve gotten too scarily close and kept me, keeps me, loves me still, keeps me still.