On a snowy December eve, we journey across town, me and this firstborn of mine.
We climb the steep stone of this church stamped 1912. Once inside, the view is breathtaking. Hand-carved mahogany pews line the sides. Flashing headlights dance through the panes of arched stained glass. Hand-formed faces pier down at me, from atop the mighty columns. In awe of the architectural beauty that surrounds, I can't help but wonder how many prints have touched this stone? The memories these walls contain...memories of joy and laughter...pain and sorrow...moments when hearts were touched by the divine...and moments when humanity fell upon their faces in light of Him.
A college paper is the reason we've come. My son, frantically taking notes. I hear it - Heaven speaking. Quickly whisking the notepad from his lap, I scribble out this post.
A reserved Greek woman steps upon the platform. Her stature small, yet she commands the attention of all.
The atmosphere grand: musicians dressed in tuxes, opera singers adorned in glittery attire, silhouetted by the black robed choir. We all anticipate the beginning of something spectacular.
My son - he follows each word of the program, translating German into English. Me - I close my eyes and let my heart be swept away by the heavenly songs resounding through the choral voice.
The conductor - she stands between the orchestra and the audience - like God stands between us and our circumstance. Not only does He conduct - He writes the song.
This once reserved Greek woman, now flails about. Every fiber of her being moving in time to each written note. She doesn't sit on the sidelines simply conducting. No, she enters the world of the musician and dances through each note of their journey. Each note plucked out precisely chosen for this exact moment in time. I watch as they glance at the notes laid before them all the while fixated upon the hands of the one that leads them. For they know the orchestra will only be as great as their own willingness to submit to the hands of the conductor.
I know this too - for my conductor holds each life note within His palm. If I focus upon a singular one (one that hurts or perhaps one that made no sense) without collectively seeing, I will be left with nothing more than a messy concert orchestrated by a string of chaotic notes and an unreliable conductor.
But my conductor, God, is always faithful. If I wait...soon I'll hear the singular notes harmonize into a heavenly song. Even though it once seemed like chaos, He was in control all along. Now I can see how each single note - even the messy ones are of great importance for the end result.
The last chord echoed through the stillness. Applause erupted from every corner. The last song had been played. But our songs live out through eternity.
The only question that remains: Who writes your song?
Until then...
Jessie
We climb the steep stone of this church stamped 1912. Once inside, the view is breathtaking. Hand-carved mahogany pews line the sides. Flashing headlights dance through the panes of arched stained glass. Hand-formed faces pier down at me, from atop the mighty columns. In awe of the architectural beauty that surrounds, I can't help but wonder how many prints have touched this stone? The memories these walls contain...memories of joy and laughter...pain and sorrow...moments when hearts were touched by the divine...and moments when humanity fell upon their faces in light of Him.
A college paper is the reason we've come. My son, frantically taking notes. I hear it - Heaven speaking. Quickly whisking the notepad from his lap, I scribble out this post.
A reserved Greek woman steps upon the platform. Her stature small, yet she commands the attention of all.
The atmosphere grand: musicians dressed in tuxes, opera singers adorned in glittery attire, silhouetted by the black robed choir. We all anticipate the beginning of something spectacular.
My son - he follows each word of the program, translating German into English. Me - I close my eyes and let my heart be swept away by the heavenly songs resounding through the choral voice.
The conductor - she stands between the orchestra and the audience - like God stands between us and our circumstance. Not only does He conduct - He writes the song.
This once reserved Greek woman, now flails about. Every fiber of her being moving in time to each written note. She doesn't sit on the sidelines simply conducting. No, she enters the world of the musician and dances through each note of their journey. Each note plucked out precisely chosen for this exact moment in time. I watch as they glance at the notes laid before them all the while fixated upon the hands of the one that leads them. For they know the orchestra will only be as great as their own willingness to submit to the hands of the conductor.
I know this too - for my conductor holds each life note within His palm. If I focus upon a singular one (one that hurts or perhaps one that made no sense) without collectively seeing, I will be left with nothing more than a messy concert orchestrated by a string of chaotic notes and an unreliable conductor.
But my conductor, God, is always faithful. If I wait...soon I'll hear the singular notes harmonize into a heavenly song. Even though it once seemed like chaos, He was in control all along. Now I can see how each single note - even the messy ones are of great importance for the end result.
The last chord echoed through the stillness. Applause erupted from every corner. The last song had been played. But our songs live out through eternity.
The only question that remains: Who writes your song?
Until then...
Jessie
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