It was a quiet afternoon. I was working at the table with Max sprawled across several chairs beside me, lazily flipping through his sister’s piano book.
Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, his bright eyes snapping. “Mom, listen to the words of this song,” he breathed excitedly. Curious as to what so captured a seven-year-old boy in a beginner piano book, I leaned in as he read,
“Pancakes, pancakes, yum, yum, yum.
Pancakes, pancakes, yum, yum, yum.
I love pancakes.”
The last phrase was still trailing from his lips as he leapt from his chair and ran to the piano in the office, clutching the book.
The quiet afternoon slipped away in the cacophony of discordant inspiration as Max spent the next half hour or so playing piano. He banged out his version of the Pancake Song, singing lustily. He went on to compose several more Odes to his favourite foods, as well as songs of appreciation for Charlie the dog and Grey the cat.
And then he was done and the ‘music’ ended.
Sometimes what could be music plays all around us. But we don’t hear it.
Until we do.
On the day we hear the music may we respond with the unpolished enthusiasm of Max.
Then sings my soul
How great Thou art . . .