I was rooted in church music from a very young age. My parents first brought me to my Grandma's church, Bloomfield United, as a toddler. I remember looking at the beautiful stained glass window behind the organ. It portrayed Jesus knocking at the door of our hearts. I loved thinking about Jesus knocking at my heart's door. As early back as I can recall, He was my close friend, who had somehow been there with me, rescuing me long before I even knew I should open the door for Him.

When we moved to West Lake Church of Christ (the "Little White Church") near Sandbanks, I had my first taste of "Praise and Worship" chorus style contemporary music. We also sang the good old hymns from the Celebration Hymnal. Since I had been taking Suzuki and Royal Conservatory Piano lessons from age 3, I soon began subbing for my Mother with her Sunday service playing.

    My younger sister and I took voice lessons, and we would sing and play songs we wrote. We travelled around to various churches in the County and elsewhere, singing our home-made tunes. Faith and prayer, expressed in music, were still a refuge for me. 

I studied music at Trinity Western in British Columbia, and I felt like I had reached the "Promised Land". The University's daily chapel services fed my mind and soul. Students from all different ethnic backgrounds, from parts of Canada and the Globe, worshipped at Chapel in their different ways, some waved praise flags, some wore actual sackcloth, kneeling to sing and pray, some were dancing, or standing with arms outstretched  — Catholics, Presbyterians, Pentecostals, Baptists, Mennonite, Brethren — it was a worship-style smorgasbord. My friends and I would take lyrics and guitars to the beach. We'd sing at sunset, bonding over healing tears and shared feelings

I still have a huge desire to make space for others to have the same kinds of experiences I did. To use music to ease suffering and transitions. Even prophetically, I hope worship stirs and convicts us. I've been falling in love with liturgy, with confession, and with the common ancient prayers we recite at St. Andrews. There's a great tradition of resources here. The lyrics to many Anglican hymns are touching and refreshing, so poetic. The access to psalm-ripped-prayers — prayers I don't have to make up on my own (though I can still pour out my heart with my made-up ones) — is amazing. My hope is that freedom in worship, in the release of honest emotions and burdens surrendered to God, more than simply rote singing, would infuse St. Andrews. Whether in quiet or dramatic ways, I think we are wading deeper into that journey.   

 Where there's true desire for humility, and a willingness to be open to the leading of God's Holy Spirit, worship is not a performance. It's not a ritual or duty, but a response to God's grace and love, and a catalyst for transformation and action. I pray that at St. Andrews and in all churches, the words we sing would match our actions, even while we know our need for everyday forgiveness.