Obedience

obedience

It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and I’m curled up in a nest of pillows on my bed surrounded by my reading and writing.  It’s my favourite way to start the weekend.  If you are picturing the moment, it is a vision of peaceful serenity.  Except, I’ve left out part of the scene.  And it is from this element, if you were to cue the audio, a discordant noise would emerge, altering the image.  My little brown eyed boy is sitting cross legged beside me on the bed tuning his one stringed guitar.  Satisfied the solo string is sufficiently dissonant, he proceeds to make music.  Enthusiastically he strums and hums, pausing his performance occasionally to share random facts with me; though mostly focused on his music, there is a short discourse on a stuffed duck and the colour brown.  As he practises, his confidence grows and he assures me that he could play his guitar in a band even if it only has one string, he’s that good.  I can’t help but laugh, cuddle, and adore this little darling.

As they are prone to do, my thoughts turn.  The scene seemed peaceful and serene pre audio, but it wasn’t the complete picture.  Similarly, while physically I was comfortable and cozy; spiritually, not as much.  You see, like the incomplete scene, sometimes, just looking in from a selected angle, my life could look like a gentle, harmonious melody.  But when you change the angle, widen it to encompass all that is rather than all that is on display, the melody becomes discordant, less harmonious.

I had been reading about behaviour and the heart.  For someone with my upbringing, behaviour is sometimes the element of a scene which is easiest to manipulate.  I’m well-trained in performance; in saying and doing the right things.  I know which camera angles to use when the play button is hit for a viewing audience.  But my heart; now that, is tucked away in the shadows and easier to pan over.  And while I would like to pretend that it plays music which complements the scene, I fear that too often it is more like the cacophony coming from the one-stringed guitar.

So often I work hard to achieve what I can only receive.  I keep strumming that same string, even though I know it’s out of tune, and needs a little backup.  I look good going through the motions, but only until you turn the sound up.

My little treasure crawls off the bed in pursuit of another venture, his music forgotten, the broken guitar left lying beside my nest of pillows.  I begin to pray; Father God, take my futile attempts at leading a one man show, and be my director.  You don’t need or want empty performances and demonstrations.  What you want from me is my heart; broken, with only one working string, however it is, you want it.  Creator of epic productions, be my director and produce a scene of beauty and harmony I couldn’t even imagine.

It is then, the whisper of Grace speaks, “play away, my daughter.”  And I grin, knowing that He will delight in my imperfect performance, missing strings and all, because it is for Him. 

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