We perched on the wooden pews in the cavernous church,
listening to Paul Anderson’s virtuosity on the fiddle, astonished at his
masterful handling of his instrument, his strong fingers finding precision in
drawing the notes out with speed or sweetness. Then his wife Shona’s lovely
voice rose and fell with haunting melodies sung by generations of Scots in the
northeast and further afield.
My third great-grandfather left Perthshire in 1852 for the
USA. Some of these tunes were in circulation in the 18th century. Before
he left. Perhaps Andrew Scobie knew some of them. The Scobies were a singing
family. Perhaps Andrew and his wife Jane sang some of them. Maybe they found
comfort in them as they adjusted to the rigours of life in Wisconsin.
I’ve lived in Scotland for over fifty years now. I am a dual
citizen, but perhaps one’s deepest sense of identity comes from the place of
birth and childhood. Changes in the political landscape of the US, as well as
revelations of past injustices sanctioned there, have jarred me. I’m not identifying
with a lot of what is said and done.
As the Scottish fiddle and voice embraced me last night, I
sensed a connection, an older connection perhaps.
And then this morning. Praise the Lord. I sat waiting on his
word and he guided me to Romans 8:16. ‘The Spirit of the Lord testifies with
our spirit that we are God’s children.’
Yes. My connection is solid; my identity is ancient and sure.
In this world we will have trouble and tribulation, but we don’t belong to this
world. We are aliens here, awaiting the Kingdom of God. We belong to God, with
Jesus as our Lord.
Praise him. Praise him for his sacrifice so that on this beautiful
autumnal morning I can declare with assurance, ‘I am a child of God. My identity
is in Him, and Him alone.’
Nothing can steal that from me.
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