On Easter Sunday this year, a group of kids stood on the stage of our church and began to sing. They differed from each other in so many ways (age, background, attire, skin color, height, personality, etc.). But they were all brave. I don’t know that I have ever attended a children’s choir performance that involved every single member singing a few solo lines. Some of them sang on key, others did not. Some of them looked like they were born to perform on stage, others definitely did not.

I don’t think I was the only one present whose heart and eye makeup were affected. It was wonderful to hear the gifted voices. But for me, on that morning, it was the mediocre-at-best singers that made my heart feel like it might overflow. They were children doing a beautiful and important thing. They were lifting their voices, regardless of whether or not they were gifted in performance or musical talent. And they seemed genuinely glad to be there, glad to be singing.

I do not doubt that each of the kids singing on stage had reasons not to sing. There were likely moms who forgot to make Easter baskets, dresses that felt too tight, shirt tags that itched, parents who were fighting in the kitchen that morning, and siblings who were annoying during the ride to the service. But they showed up anyway. They sang anyway. And because they decided to show up and sing, countless people were moved toward a posture of praise.

Years ago, I saw a bumper sticker on the back of a car that read “Be Kind Anyway.” I loved it. I drove home and wrote the same words on a 3x5 notecard, using Scotch tape to place it on our refrigerator door. I had heard “Be Kind” a thousand times, but there was something special about the addition of the word “anyway.” It acknowledges what is true: We all have ample reason not to be kind to those around us. Maybe they have treated us meanly or dismissively. Maybe we are hungry and tired. Or perhaps we are feeling discouraged by some earlier disappointment that has nothing to do with the human in front of us.

 Similarly, we all have reasons to refrain from showing up and singing. But we should do it anyway.

Two years ago, my husband (who was thirty-nine at the time) was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. It was unexpected. He was a seemingly healthy guy. The week before, I had watched him play in a high-level tennis match. Then, suddenly, he was undergoing emergency surgery, and I was being told that the five-year cure rate for people diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer is around ten percent. I ugly-cried in a waiting room full of strangers. I was afraid of losing him. I was afraid of how life might change for each of our kids if they lost their dad. I was afraid of being an adult in the world without my best friend.

His emergency surgery was on a Wednesday. The following Sunday morning, I took a break from the hospital room and drove our kids to church. While Rob was still lying in bed, hooked up to machines that did a lot of beeping, I stood alongside other believers, who surely had their own fears and troubles, and tried to sing.

The song was “Goodness of God” by Cece Winans. Goodness gracious. Could I sing those words from a place of honesty? I found that I could . . . maybe even more so than usual. The truth of the first two lines was abundantly clear and more important than anything. God had been faithful to me. He had been so, so good. That wasn't going to change, no matter what else happened. My voice cracked often and sounded less harmonious than normal, but the act of singing nourished my soul.

In his book, Man’s Search For Meaning, Viktor Frankl recounts his experience in concentration camps during WWII: “Our generation is realistic, for we have come to know man as he really is. After all, man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord's Prayer or the Shema Yisrael on his lips” (p.125). How incredible. It seems possible, even in the most horrific of circumstances, to use our lips as instruments to reflect a small portion of our heavenly Father’s faithfulness to us.

There is plenty to grieve in this world, and I am not saying we should rush through that grief. Nor am I encouraging myself or anyone else to slap on a smile when we show up for worship and pretend that we’re always happy and our faith is always strong. Sometimes I show up weak and hungry. Sometimes I rely on the faith of those around me for strength. Sometimes I’m going through familiar motions while thinking about my grocery list. But since we are forgetful, we sing reminders of God’s goodness to ourselves and each other, while praying that those reminders make their way to our hearts.

In Ephesians 5:18–19, Paul encourages us to “be filled with the Spirit, addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs.” And when we do this, our hearts grow in thankfulness. We are imperfect people—some of us troubled, others feeling victorious—who need to acknowledge the greatness of God. His faithfulness. His nearness. His worthiness. In spite of the many ways we differ from each other, this act of worship brings us together. We are all brave. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we actively defy the one who seeks only to steal, kill, and destroy (John 10:10).

Maybe we humans are similar to the songbirds observed by the narrator in Susanna Clarke’s novel, Piranesi. He notices that much of the birds’ daily conversation is repetitive and nearsighted. But as a flock, their movements foretell a powerful storm. After experiencing the birds’ collective behavior, the narrator receives the warning and begins to prepare for the storm by gathering extra food. “Perhaps,” he reflects, “the wisdom of birds resides, not in the individual, but in the flock, the congregation” (p.62).

I do not ever wish to forget that there is significant wisdom behind the weekly practice of worship. We show up—each with our own moods, tendencies, experiences, and problems big and small— and we declare that our God is King and he is good. Life is scary and hard, disappointing and mundane, tragic and troubling. It is also delicious and exciting, sweet and amazing, full of beauty and wonders. No matter which aspect we experience today, let’s choose to stand together and sing anyway!