Drip.  Drip. Drip-drip.

Trying to stop the drip-drops was nothing short of futile.  My eyes started to burn as salt landed on my lips.  Wishing for a towel and settling for the soft fabric of my yoga strap instead, I tried and failed to mop the sweat from my brow.  Wet, wavy strands of hair fell around my face, escaping the clutches of a plastic clip.

It felt like more than just a good sweat.  It felt like my whole entire body was crying.

Sweat-tears rolled across my arms and puddled around my fingertips in Downward Facing Dog.  I was more than glistening.  I imagine I looked like I had just showered with my clothes on.

I don’t usually take yoga classes.  I teach them-but I rarely take them.  My home practice is strong, regular, and the best part of all-free.  I know how to challenge myself and prefer to leave my mat wrung out and sore.

But this…tonight.  It was a whole new level of wrung out, let me tell you.

And nothing about this class was “holy.”  Honestly speaking, this is another reason why I prefer to do my own thing.  Because I’ve experienced the presence of Jesus on my yoga mat, and I haven’t been the same since.  The environment of a Holy Yoga class is different…sacred.  It’s worship in motion.

Once upon a time, I took secular classes regularly.  Before I became an instructor, I was faithful to show up twice a week.  I am forever grateful for what I learned in those 5+ years.  It’s where I learned the yoga.  But after experiencing what it was like to combine prayer, scripture, Jesus with the asana, I had a hard time doing anything else.

I recently exchanged a back and forth Twitter conversation with the owner of a newer yoga studio close to where I live.  As we said our goodbyes, we invited one another to our respective classes, and today I decided to take her up on her offer.

I was craving instruction without having to think.  I wanted someone to tell me what to do and when to do it.  I wanted to simply show up and participate and breathe.

The room was warm and humid, the instructor willowy.  There were maybe 7 of us altogether, different ages and body types.  This is the beautiful thing about yoga by the way…it’s for everyone.

We moved through postures quickly, vinyasa-style, our inhales and exhales directing the movement.  It was deliciously difficult and I didn’t want it to end.  But it was in our final resting pose, ‘savasana’ as it is often referred to, where I felt the Lord speak.  It was as if I had my ear pressed to His door throughout the entire hour, hearing nothing at all but the sound of my own breath.  Trying desperately to have a holy experience while the instructor carried on about prana, chakras and the like.

And when I stopped trying to create an encounter, He showed up.  When I slowed down and halted all movement, He spoke.

“Receive,” He whispered.

Tears fell from their rightful place this time as I realized where I was…or rather, where I wasn’t.  I wasn’t sitting in a church pew.  My ears weren’t filled with the sounds of worship music.  I wasn’t in a “holy” yoga class.  Yet, I was in the very thick of a holy moment.

And that’s who He is, isn’t He?  The Holy in the middle of the un-holy.  The Divine invasion.

Because it’s never about the environment we try to manifest.  He IS, everywhere, all the time.  I’m guilty of trying to put God into boxes He is too big to fit in.  I’ll admit to feeling like I need to bring Him into my presence, when it’s always the other way around.  He is the one drawing me to Himself.  Always.

So it’s really not about us at all, is it?  We (I) try so hard to get my hands in whatever He’s doing…and maybe He’s waiting for us (me) to lie down and let our hands fall open to our sides.  Maybe He’s waiting for us to surrender ourselves and our need or desire to fix…fabricate.

For He and He alone brings the Holy.