May 29, 2006
It is twilight. Tiny specks of almost snowflakes dot the air, though the sky above me is clear, a deep navy, almost giving away to night. I reach into my bag, intending to write, wishing this time I had my journal instead of my Alpha Smart. It’s one of the few times in my life I forgot to pack it. Didn’t I know I would wish for the intimacy of pen and paper during this mountain get away? But writing deadlines and unfinished books were on my mind as I packed, not solitude and reflection. I never once thought of my pretty flowered blank book that has faithfully journeyed with me all these years.
Last night I fell asleep thinking about beautiful words. Deep words. Phrasing them in my mind as I entered slumber, knowing they wouldn’t sound nearly so musical in the morning, if I even remembered them, which, of course I didn’t.
So I reach into my blue-checkered bag to grasp my Alpha Smart and see if I can pen to God the yearning inside of me. But my hand falls upon my Bible and somehow the Alpha Smart remains put. I open to the Psalms and read a few verses a loud, pausing as they cause me to give praise or thanksgiving, or as they prompt confession.
And then the music comes—praise songs mostly—as I gaze at a snowcapped mountain peak and hear the wind accompany me with its night dance through the trees. I sing as the sliver of a moon increases in its intensity, going from a dull light in a blue sky to a brilliant crescent in a black sky.
The deck of the hotel is empty. Perhaps the other guests, like my own family, find the cold, damp air a deterrent. At first I sing quietly, my music a private affair, but as time passes and no one else braves the cold, my song grows bolder in worship. I sing white for a while—straight, full of worship, but with no playing around. Then my soul begins to take over and my music becomes became fuller, richer. I play with notes high and low and try funny little runs, which pour out of me as effortlessly as if I were sauntering across the wild grasses below. I sing for Him, but I can’t help but wonder if some of my black friends would enjoy my renditions, or if they would shake their heads at my woeful inadequacy to do justice to a style make famous by the gospel singers of their color. But I force the thoughts aside, knowing my Lord enjoys my free expression, uninhibited by human audience.
After a time my eight-year-old slips outside and onto my lap. I’m singing the old chorus with the phrase, “Holy Spirit you’re a comfort to me.” He snuggles in and whispers, ‘And you’re a comfort to me, mommy.”
“Praise the Lord,” I whisper back. “There’s a Bible verse that says that God comforts us so we can comfort others, so if I’m a comfort to you, it’s because He’s comforted me.”
My son smiles. “And He comforts me so I can comfort you.”
“That’s right.” I say.
I ask him what song he wants to sing with me and we do a wonderful rendition of “God is Good,” his innocent young voice rising and falling with my own. The sheer purity of the moment feels like heaven and I know I will treasure our duet forever.
He soon grows too cold to linger with me and dashes inside, back to the world of Disney Channel movies and wall heaters.
But not me. I want more. The once pale stars that hung here and there between the big mountain and me now shine on a velvet backdrop, glistening in the sky like the diamond in my wedding ring after a fresh cleaning. And I worship.
As I sing, I imagine that someone’s window is open and that they are listening. A story grows in my mind. Some poor discouraged soul is hearing my voice and as the songs pour forth, her broken heart is reaching for the Creator. I let my mind run on a while and then became very embarrassed that I would conjure up an audience for myself, when I really, truly want to sing to an audience of One. I put away my make-believe and apologize to the Lord for letting my imagination run wild when I just wanted just to hang out with him.
After a while I find myself sitting taller in my chair, wanting to sing as I was trained long ago—to sustain long notes and let those high soprano descants flow from within me. My out of shape diaphragm and weak vocal muscles disappoint me, but the longing can’t be ignored and I find myself standing, walking toward the deck railing, singing, “Great is thy faithfulness, Oh God my Father . . .” The verses flow forth as I gaze over the shadowed pond and muddy, dandelion dotted grass below the deck. I can’t make out the brilliant yellow of the flowers that look so perfect on a mountainside and so hideous in my front yard, but I know they were there, waiting to speak their cheery hello when the sky once again awakes.
“Summer and winter and springtime and harvest. Sun, moon and stars in their courses above, Join with all nature in manifest witness of thy great faithfulness, mercy and love. . .”
And then it happens. I gulp in the pure mountain air, plant my feet and let the high notes come. I am no longer singing soul, but putting on my opera voice, longing for a sweet tone to hang in the air and echo against the blackened hulk of a mountain that rises before me. “Great is thy faithfulness. Great is thy faithfulness. Morning by morning new mercies I see!” Deep breath. “All I have needed thy hand hath provided.” Breath. “Great is thy faithfulness.” Breath. “Great is thy faithfulness.” Deeper Breathe. “Great is thy FAAAAAAAAITH ful ness. . . . . Lord . . .unto . . . me.”
I barely sing the last three words. My voice breaks with the reality of a faithful God. I wipe my eyes, the emotion of being with my Lord on the mountainside filling me up. And I pick up my bag, give one last glance at the beauty of the night, and slip inside, His Song ringing in my heart.
