At the start of the summer of 2006, I had a life-changing experience. Straight away we're into cliche,  and over-used phraseology. However right now, 'life-changing' is deeply and personaly an apt description. I travelled to Pinetown, South Africa and spent 10 defining days working with the local church in the surrounding townships. I say 'life changing,' because since those sun kissed days have faded into memory, they have remained in my heart and mind as inspiration, and they have instigated deep conviction.

One profoundly powerful day we sat in on the devotional time for some of the women from the township. It is well documented by friends, family and perhaps even foes how easily I cry. I have even been known to shed some soul over Homer and family, or the residents of Ramsey street.

In an hour long service, I re-learnt what it means to cry. Desperate, confused tears, stunned by the resonance emnating from aching souls. I have never had my heart broken so much before.

The hairs were immediately brushed to attention by atmosphere as we entered the room to angelic a' capela. A tangible spirituality hung in the air as unkempt, work worn women released billowing lungs like gloriously coloured sails adorning sunbeaten ships. As the anthemic unknowns of a foreign tongue died down, the guide of the meeting implored for prayer requests to be brought forward.

One by one, creaking, smile enthused women came forward to light a candle and offer thanks. A gratitude full of eloquence and imagination. Day upon day, breath upon breath, warmly received and accredited to a loving creator, tangible and seen in the daily working of a revolving planet.

And then they bring their requests. Eyes and hearts numbed by countless Bob Geldof campaigns and Bono pleadings were aroused by the reality of the lives offered out to God in prayer. Story after story, person after person, aching soul after aching soul. Death as inevitable as sunset, and struggle caking stories like the dust on the roads. Aids ravages a beauty clad land of its peoples. They don't just pray with their tongue, but every wrinkled face tells of the depth of emotion behind every uttering.

But then they sing. No music. Just voices. Beautiful, natural harmonies sung passionately to a God that they know loves them. I had to turn away. I know I wasn't the only person in the group crying, but I almost felt guilty for feeling so much pain during such thankful elation. Worship: defined and demonstrated in a language I didn't know by the most humbly gracious people gracing the earth.

Then I saw a sign. One of those cheesy Christian posters.

"You were wired to worship."

Why? Is God so narcissistic and arrogant that He needs our praises? Why? So we confirm in our frailty and mortality how powerfull He is? Why? So WE gain benefit? Is it truly devotion if you give to get in return? For a while I had this visualisation of a supreme being lording it over us, shouting "look at me!"

Then, as the a'capela's died down, and the echoes in the hall ebbed away, I began to wonder. Dangerous I know. Is worship one way?

We have a God who hand crafted every star, who paints every sunset, wraps every sky in cloud. He breathes life and love into every newborn baby, every windswept beach, every snowy mountain. All of creation sings and whispers "I love you." God has given us everything. Grace, peace, beauty, truth, hope, faith, love, LIFE. He's a divine, adorable, creative God. He's not a doctrine or a force, he's above and beyond such definable concepts. He's a being, and He calls through all creation that He loves us. Every life lost is Him calling His creation home. Every ray of light he sends out to every broken heart.

We were made to worship. We were made to live, breathe and love with Him. To wake up every day and just make Him smile. Because He absolutely adores us. These women realised It was just their turn, to sing it back.