A Little Night Music

How wonderful is your name over all the earth,   
   O Lord, our Lord!
How exalted is your glory 

   above the sky! 

  
When I see the heavens, the work of your fingers, 
   the moon and stars, which you set in their place - 
what is man, that you should take thought for him? 
   what is the son of man, that you should look after him? 

                                                                                      Psalm 8

 

      My daughters and I went to their music contest at a nearby university this morning.  I stood in the halls with them as they waited to play their violin and piano pieces before the judges in the assigned music room.  I stood among their tightening fear before the fog and drizzle outside the windows muffling the morning. How many halls have I stood in waiting? These are music halls of beautiful strings I find myself awakening as if from a dream of other corridors that wound round and round with pain and loss and medical administering.  These are halls of light and sound and other kinds of examining.  That all our waiting could be attuning to the realms of sound opening to rooms of song  I prayed as they were called to go in with music in their hands and hearts; that in moments would coax the dead man's notes alive again beneath the fingers of their youth and discipline and sweep the lengths of passageways before moving on out the doors.

The following is a poem my 14 year old daughter wrote while she was waiting on her sister after she played her pieces:


                                                    Angels Watching
                                         
                                              Rain runs down the window
                                                 washing away my fear.

                                              A gentle calm envelopes me,
                                                 I feel angels are near.

                                              My hands glide over the piano
                                                 touching all the right keys,

                                              But tis not I who plays,
                                                 tis the angels' melodies.

                                              The flutter in my heart is stilled,
                                                 as music fills the air.

                                              Angels slowly twirl in time,
                                                 unearthly beauty so rare.

                                              If you ever feel the angels watching
                                                 don't look the other way.

                                              Their audience is not always granted
                                                 and not for long do they stay.