A Stubborn Tune (Part 1)

Rumored memories of the distant me. A faintly remembered and forgotten identity played out in simple melodies. It was the music of me that I had lost contact with over the years--the same original song that was awakening my programmed stare. Initially the music seemed evaporative. I had heard it years ago when I was just a child. Over time it faded into the noise of those who said it wasn’t there. These elders entrusted with the wisdom of all mankind were of course quite educated and aged by my standards.
After all, anyone who had achieved the all-wise, and borderline geriatric age of teenager or older, was not to be challenged in such matters. What can I say? A child’s perspective is squatty at best, and non-existent in most cases. Maybe that’s why adolescents think skyward so much? They dream dreams that tread the water of survival. It is only later that dreams drowned form the foundations of our regrets.
I’m not sure when I began to notice again the music. The moment was like opening the front door to collect the morning news only to find an old friend patiently waiting for me. The friend knew I would come out sooner or later and be forced to confront all the years of unanswered correspondence and invitations. When I asked him how long he’d been there, he simply replied “always.” It wasn’t just that the music was familiar that peaked my curiosity. I possessed lots of warm fuzzy memories looking back over my childhood. We lived in a good home. Secure, solid, moral, and generally achieving of that which makes us all happy--with a little hard work of course. Isn’t that the pinnacle? A little sweat, a testing of commitment, achievement? These are things to be desired and obtained for sure; but nothing in that house played the music, or even listened for it.
It’s funny though. I had heard a familiar refrain of the music in the quiet moments of my father’s day occasionally end the voids of expected distraction. However, the song had been a private stash, not intended for general consumption. I knew I’d have to get my own. Otherwise the sound would forever be that lost familiar tune with the forgotten title.
Yet there it was again and again. Random teasings. In the flicker-sway of the branches, and ricochets of volume endlessly bounding in the passages of road and building.
The music called and moved like a child attempting to move a parent from stillness to a game. This also meant that to truly catch the melody I would have to leave the luxury of my own place. So I fought the urge for many months, even years. The strange reality was that my place was not all that enticing. It’s just worn comfortable. It is the numbing of routine mixed with only speculation of the weather outside.
Philosophers one and all we are, theorizing personal greatness or catastrophe on the mounds of our past un-dones. It’s the garment of “mine and mine alone.” I was sure it was a cold and empty place outside my kingdom. I also surmised that it was always the same inside as outside, so why venture out? Occasionally, on perfect big blue days of planned comfort, I transplanted myself to some outpost of slack and escape; but just for a view of what I wanted to see and then quickly back before I knew I was gone.
I guess the question was: why do I care? Why even open the door to invite such a possibility of an unknown journey? It was always much easier to hide in the back of the house with the lights off when the knocking at the door commenced. I could always plan for the visit by the music—that song that stirred the inside. It always came when my routine had been opened up. The silence of my hidden existence had been deafening; but the music was even more prominent and stubborn.
So I left my little kingdom, and walked the hill that overlooks the interchange to see what I could see. I knew the road below to be well traveled, but not by anyone I knew. Which way to go was already chosen before I took my deep breath at the crest of the view. Would I take the chance and explore this calling? That was the question squeezing my will that day. The hesitation to move stemmed from the fact that the path I needed to take was littered with the corpses of my regrets. Monuments of accusations directed at me for the things I had either done wrong, or not at all. How could anyone pass through such a gauntlet of angry mile markers?
Down the lane I went, tip-toeing past most memories without any response, while simultaneously shutting my eyes at the most replayed failures. At first the bodies seemed to rise in condemnation. It was only after trying to confront several that I realized they were not moving at all. They were completions in my life that I willingly carried around with me. As much as I hated them, I could not let their memories go. As far as I was concerned, they were just as alive today as the moment I breathed them into existence.
It took a few gestures of steadiness to put my focus forward. I came to the conclusion that the hindrance of my mistakes could only be remedied with a new me. I had to start new in order to be able to confront my regrets with anything but fear.
A quick glance back and I fastened my foot to the road. The launching of that first step freed me for the first time to focus on what I could bring into future being instead of what I couldn’t change from the past.
My stagger magically transitioned to a stroll as gravity and courage pulled me down the hill and into the road. Afraid of what I might miss, and scared to look the fool, I resisted the urge to run. I had not been this way before; and I wanted to take it all in as I went. Somehow I knew following the music was the way to go.
The road was skinny as it danced and flowed through the expanse. Vast herds of faithful trees, whose feet were carpeted with fields of reflective color, lined the boundaries of my vision. Their distant song I could faintly hear as it flowed across the plain like a tide lapping ay my feet, and then racing back out to the trees for another intake. The song was not complete in its composition, but it rested the air for those who breathed it in. It was here that I realized for the first time that the music was both inside and outside of me. Everything around me testified to the accuracy of my search. My indecision about pursuing this trail, however, had caused me to get a late start. I suddenly became very aware that the day was almost spent, and I had no idea where the road led, or how far to the next town. I had already traveled farther than I realized. My known streets were now traded for a rural road with not so promising prospects on the path to the front.
Ahead, shadows paced the road in anticipation of my arrival— panthers of bad intentions and intimidation. The music in the woods was distant now, and content not to leave its sanctuary. My thoughts turned to retreating the way I came. I could probably still make it back to my place with what little light was left in the sky. The road ahead was darkened to a void.
Arms tight against my body, and hands hidden from the cold, I started into shadows. At first the fear eased back, giving the eyes a moment of adjustment. However, just as my confidence gained momentum, my feet became unsure as the darkness drifted back in around me. I had felt this shock of fear before. It’s the trembling of prey as the predator circles. More than one presence I thought to myself. At least three, with others watching. In the middle of the trap there were low growls emanating from all directions. My bearings temporarily askew, I told my feet to move. The communications did not get through at first effort. Finally I labored a few steps. The encirclement continued. It was as if my legs were completely asleep. The pain of restoring blood flow made the motion even more painful. I wanted to stop. The shadows though had a purpose. It was intended damage. Any more pauses would signal the feeding frenzy.
In my periphery I noticed a boundary of dim light. My continued movement forward in the road towards the opening seemed to wall off the hungry. My steps once again discovered purpose. My heart trained my mind to the entrance of color ahead. The scrabble of branches that cloaked the daylight thwacked and jeered threats; but it was too late. My pace grew arrogance, sending me to the exit of this miserable tunnel. Breathable, reviving air began to sweeten the lungs.
Crossing again into the light, I was relieved. For many paused minutes I could not inhale enough fresh air. Hands on knees I ventured an under-arm glance backwards. Eyes, pacing in the dark, waited for me in the tunnel. It had been a warning; but of what? Not to come this way?
While contemplating my new position on the road, I was greeted by two feet that shuffled up the dirt under my bent-over frame. The shoes had a strange glow about them. Regaining my strength, I straightened to see an older man holding a lantern. Smiling slowly, he grabbed my arm. We started to walk. He let me know that it would be dark soon. Already the lantern was needed, increasingly growing in strength as the sun laid down for the evening.
Not many had come through that part of the path he said. Inside I knew why. Not sure if I could have explained it; but I knew something threatening that I did not know before this day. Ahead of me was a small lit home just below road level. An outpost of loneliness I thought. There was nothing else livable in sight; and yet it was the most inviting spot amongst a day of restlessness. A warmth of peace in an encroaching night. As we stepped down to the door I took one last glance at the country.
The golden fields had traded their active talk for soothings of purples and deep blues as the pink of the day washed out into the retreating sky. Sparse patches of grass bearded the slope that ran up to the crags of the mountain ahead. I turned to my companion for the confirmation I knew was coming. “Tomorrow the mountain I guess?” I queried. He just smiled a he ducked inside the door. “Tomorrow,” was his only reply.
Together we settled in for the night by the fire that my host watched and stirred meticulously. Hesitantly I broke the silence after a patient eternity of waiting for the man to speak. Despite my asking him his name, he did not give it. So I asked him why he was out here all alone. “Purpose,” he said. “It’s my purpose.”
I thought he must be crazy to live in this place intentionally. Before I could voice my bewilderment, he explained that he is a watchman.
“I’ve been watching for you,” he said with a pause.
“Me? How could you be watching for me? I only decided a short while ago to come this way,” I protested.
“Malleable hearts come this way,” he replied.
I promptly corrected him, letting him know that I was just following the music. The music? In all of the rush to get in before dark, I had lost the sound. Before I could complete the thought, he chimed in.
“The music is still playing. You just don’t hear it right now because your focus is on your trials. Get some sleep and you’ll hear it again in the morning.” Seeing that he was finished being generous with his conversation, I gave in to the narcotic of the fire. I soon melted into sleep.
At first the sound seemed barely audible. Rapidly the music swept over the little house like I was sitting on the bottom of the ocean watching a wave pass overhead. It became loud and was seemingly everywhere. Stepping outside into the first fingers of sunshine, I saw my new silent partner sitting by the road watching the thicket back down the lane. Momentary memories of the day before shivered me back into reality. There was no sunshine in that place. I did not want to pass that way again. As the morning pried open my eyes I heard the wave of music flow back towards us like a pendulum that had reached the full peak of its swing and was now retracing its course.
I felt like ducking to avoid being tumbled over. His hand raised, the watchman encouraged me to hold my ground. As the sound grew, I fixed my feet ready to either run into the house or to brace for the battering. When the music came over us my heart lifted like a buoy and back down again. It continued past us, spreading across the slow rise to the mountain. I watched for the wave to smash into the bottom of the mountain. Instead, the music nimbly vaulted up the craggy base, its pitch elevating as the wave gave up its own volume to catapult a perfect sound to the top.
At the peak the new sound apexed in a single sweet note like the ringing of a small bell. It in turn triggered a trumpet blast from the mountain as the wave freefell in applause to the valley floor. From the top the sound was forceful and announcing. So much so that I didn’t notice the return flow from the first sounds as they reorganized in accompaniment, heading back down the slope towards us.
Quickly trotting back to where the watchman was slowly rising I asked him why I had never heard this before. Again his response was plain.
“You never listened before,” he said.
Amazed, I pushed further. “You’re saying that the music has always been here?”
“It has always been here,” he answered. After a brief pause, he continued. “The music is for you. It is for those who have an ear and a heart to listen.”
“For me?”
“ Not just for you; but just for you,” he answered in his best teacher’s voice.
He could see that I was struggling with the riddle. Out of disappointment at my ignorance, he clarified. “The music is the song of the heart for everyone. It is heard the same by everyone who listens; and yet the song is played individually and uniquely for each person.” Before I could plead another beginner’s need for definition, he interjected that my journey would bring understanding. At the conclusion of our lesson, I stepped back to the realization that the symphony between the wave and the mountain was in full rhythm. The mountain blasts would dissipate just in time for the wave to scale to the top again.
“So this music is always like this?” I stammered.
“The music is always here,” the watchman replied. “But the variety of tone and reflection are endlessly changing. What you have seen thus far is just the oceanfront. If you are to know what you seek, you must leave the sea where you have been living. Come, it is time for us to go. The mountain you must climb.”
I decided it was better to pocket my library of questions for the moment as we turned down the road, for the mountain was beginning to skyscrape as we approached the base.
My enthusiasm made the initial climb easy and enjoyable. The mountain and the wave continued to play over the top of us as if we were walking behind a waterfall. Before I had awakened fully we had scaled half the mountain. I had not looked down as my feet had been light, and my energy high. At the midway point we stopped as the watchman nodded for me to look down where we had been. Like a map laid out below, I saw the little house with its fire signaling from its roof. A little farther back I saw the thicket of darkness that straddled the road. I had not noticed while there, but roads exited out either side of the blockade.
My eyes followed the road that went left. In the distance I could see what appeared like a large city with much activity. Glancing quickly to the watchman for a reading of the map, I was further encouraged by my choice.
“It’s a smooth road with smooth living,” he answered.
It sounded nice; but I could see that he did not agree with my assessment. Returning my gaze to the mountain I suddenly realized how rocky and narrow the path had become. The road we had traveled thus far was not wide, but it had been gentle and sloping. What lie ahead was anything but gentle and sloping.
A firm grip and solid footing would be necessary here. My reversal caught me by surprise. The watchman was starting down the hill.
“Aren’t you coming?” I mumbled.
“Here lies the perimeter of my boundary. My purpose is within,” The watchman replied.
As he started down the path, the watchman returned my open-mouth with not-so-comforting words.
“You must cross it on your own. You created this mountain long ago. You’ll understand its being more as you give it your effort. Give up and it will grow larger and more treacherous still.”
“What? That’s it?” I blurted out. “What if I fall?”
“Get back up,” he shrugged in monotone. Seeing my exasperation, he shot back his own frustration with a head shake. “Stand on the firm. Grab hold of the trustworthy. Fix your eyes on the top; and if you do not give up you will be rewarded.”
At that he disappeared down through the switchbacks. Suddenly tired and deflated, I took one more look at the noisy city that deflected from the thicket. Smooth living. Maybe I should go that way. A second glance at the watchman’s house gave some assurance of the direction I was headed. Again the wave pursued my spot on the mountain. As it climbed over me, the wave seemed to whisper a “follow me.” The music trekked skyward, and so I started again my climb.

A Shouting Whisper: (Preface)

This is a tale of a journey. It is a discovery we choose to explore or ignore Either choice will do nothing to undermine the reality of God's love for us, and His constant beckoning of us to Him. It is not intended to be the story of a specific person. It is the story of God's never-sleeping love for His creation. His love is written upon the hearts of men. He has lavishly decorated life, and hidden in plain view His message to be explored and discovered. What's that message? Come home again. He established us in His image to create, love, govern, dispense justice, defend the defenseless, and to know Him--to choose Him. For all mankind longs to be loved. Yes, even God desires to be loved. Love only has the freedom and soil to sprout to fruition in the environment of choice. Without choice we cannot love. Without choice we can only do what we are required to do. What do we choose today? Do we choose the comfort of self-constructed realms of instant gratification and insulation from the risks of living freely? Or do we choose to live freely--to love. To love and be loved. To intentionally place ourselves in vulnerable positions on the way to loving others and being loved. With people, the risks of uninhibited love are great and real. The target of our affection can at any moment destroy the bond of trust that holds our gift of love in place. What then? Do we cease to love because of the pain and the hurt? If we cease to love, then we also cease to be free. If we cease to be free then we have forfeited our choice. Without the restoration of choice, how can we once again love? Or for that matter be loved? God defends choice--or free will-- vehemently. If we burn the bridge of trust between Him and us, He rebuilds it yet again and beckons us to cross over to Him. He will not force us to love Him because it would destroy the relationship. Instead He calls to us consistently and in every way. His calling out to us has been described as "a still small voice." A whisper? A whisper that contrasts boldly with the noise of man's pace and distraction. God is not hiding from man. Quite the opposite. His whisper declares unshakable and unconditional love in all that He has created and given to man. All creation testifies as God woos us with His love. Can we walk in the whisper today? Can we let the love song that was woven into our being proclaim, and mesh with God's melody of redemption and reconciliation? I hope you enjoy the story, and it causes you to think. More importantly, I pray we all find the unity of the heart's song that God has created in us and for us, and take the lover's path back to Him.

New Series

I will soon be posting a story in a multiple part series. It is not intended to portray a real place, but rather the opportunity to discover God's love and "song" for us. If you like, dislike, or end up confused, feel free to comment. There is truly much to be discovered, including God Himself.