Old Music

The music is yellowed with time. Dog-eared and torn. Old Sellotape perished long ago, leaving a crusty swatch.

Pencilled in fingering, written above the notes by Mr MacKenzie, my cello teacher over fifty years ago. My goodness! Over fifty years ago. I performed this in an annual music festival in high school. I played much better then than I can play now, but still, it is strangely comforting to link with my younger self, with a life that faded long ago.

Then I remember a piece by heart. Tarantella. A speedy dance, full of life and exuberance. I start out robustly, confidently, but after a few minutes I hit a wall. I can’t remember that next bit. I can’t find the music. Maybe tomorrow I’ll remember it.

Because tomorrow I will unpack my old friend, my cello which has been with me since the age of 9, and I will try again.

I didn’t launch straight into Vocalise, though. First I tuned the instrument. Not bad, considering I hadn’t played in a few months. Then I warmed up with some scales, some arpeggios, various bowing styles. Only once I’d warmed up did I attempt the piece of music.

After a time of nostalgic wandering through corridors of half-remembered musical pieces, my fingertips, now un-calloused, began to sting a bit. My bowing arm ached a little. Time to wind up.

So, I let my spirit soar as I played through some of the current praise music, which can be so uplifting. I worshiped with my cello, struggling through a few I didn’t know so well, but ending with King of Kings, Majesty. My heart sang with my cello, praising my God and King.

I am so grateful to my parents for the financial sacrifices they made so that my sister and I could learn to play the violin and cello. I am so grateful to God for giving me a love of music and a slight aptitude in it.

Music is a tonic. It is a balm for the hurting heart and a comfort in times of trouble. It is a joy which brings a smile to my face even now as I think of the unalloyed pleasure it brings. I first encountered Jesus through the heartfelt singing of believers who loved their Lord. There he was in the midst of their praise, and I met him.

May your day be filled with music, lifting you out of fear and frustration, anxiety and sorrow, and filling you with the peace of God which passes all understanding. May you sense his love and joy as you warm up by reminding yourself of who he is, the faithful, everlasting Lord.

And then may your spirit soar in praise and worship.

In God I trust

This morning I just want to give thanks for the NHS and particularly the Banchory surgery. Three times in the last six weeks I have gone in for my regular blood check and shared another problem with the nurse – and all three times I have been fast-tracked to the duty nurse or the duty doctor, or both, and given expert advice and treatment immediately.

I’ve walked out without the anxiety of a bill which would follow in the post, or a claim I would need to make to an insurance company. 

I thank God for the people who work in the NHS in Scotland, and pray that they may be properly paid for their compassion and skill and hard work.

This morning I read Psalm 56, and the commentator chose these verses: When I am afraid, I will trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can mere man do to me?

What encouraging words on this dreich Scottish summer’s day. Anxiety can rise when I hear the news, when I think of certain situations or even when I plan fun events. This morning I choose to praise God and trust in him. He has all the details of my life in his loving hands; he’s never abandoned me yet and he’s not going to now.  

In God I trust.

Sunsets

Watching the western sky gradually fire up from a stripey peach and pale blue to incandescent pinks and roses with intermittent streaks of grey: wow, what a show!

It’s been a spring-like day, full of promise, snowdrops blooming, daffodils and tulips pushing through the hard earth and growing. Mostly at this time of year when the sun is out I notice its position in the sky relative to our living/kitchen area. Sunlight seems to flood the room in a way it doesn’t during winter months. Welcoming. Warming. Full of promise. 

Spring is on the way. We’ve turned the corner. A new start. A fresh season.

Seasons of life aren’t quite so predictable as that. We might be facing our final sunsets at a young age or still rejoicing in an active life at 90. It all seems arbitrary and without rhyme nor reason.

And yet the Bible says that the Lord has numbered not only the hairs on our heads but also our days. He knows how many we have and he has plans – good plans – to fill up the days we have so that we can make the most of the time we have on this earth. Of course we have to work with him on those plans – but that seems a wise thing to do.

So, whether this is my last sunset or I have many more in front of me, I can rest in the assurance that God knows the plans that he has for me and at whatever age, final sunset or many more to go, they are plans for good. 

Sunrise follows sunset as sure as God lives. Life follows death. Praise him for his faithfulness and love.

Torn Handkerchiefs

The pale blue sky was filled with thin, ragged clouds which pulled apart like cotton wool. 

A perfect spring morning. No wind, the sun was out and shining brightly on a dewy landscape as Dusty and I rounded behind the woods. The birds trilled their joyful songs.

We walked. We prayed. And then we stopped, soaking in the beauty of the rough field before us. For between most thistles and thorns, weeds and saplings, stretched gossamer strands of webs spun by millions of spiders. Each web was picked out in droplets of dew and sparkled in the sunlight. 

A torn carpet of moisture mirroring the torn canopy in the sky above.

I smiled as I remembered a scene of moist tissue sprinkled across the lawn and raining down from the trees of our home when I was a teenager. Friends had ‘toilet-papered’ my house the night before – a fun way of marking friendship in those long-ago days of innocence – but my Dad had not been impressed. He ill-advisedly took the hose to the strands of toilet paper which laced through the trees and blew gently in the breeze, bringing down millions of tight balls of wet tissue onto the grass which I then spent the next few weeks raking up every day. 

Fun memories of innocence, of adolescence, and even of my dad’s temper.

I thought of torn handkerchiefs, and remembered the tree outside of a tomb in Cyprus which was adorned with a myriad of torn hankies, each representing a heartfelt prayer offered to God at this holy man’s memorial site. 

A myriad of spiders’ webs, picked out in glistening dewy drops, offering a paean of praise to the loving Creator God.

What better way to start the day?

Dawn Chorus

A blanket of grey obscures the sun this morning, but there is a hint of a promise that the sun may poke through at any moment. 

As I walked, I sang my praises to God, aware that I was adding my voice to the chorus already raised by the birds. Just one more voice, blending into the rest. Indistinguishable. Loud or soft. Off key or harmonious.  A cacophony or a chorus, depending on your graciousness.

But to God, it isn’t a cacophony nor a chorus. He hears every individual voice, and each one is precious to him. He loves to hear a joyful sound, a voice raised in gratitude to him for who he is, and for all he has done. A voice raised in joy for the gift of life, for the miracle that is in itself. 

If a voice is silent, he misses it. He longs to hear every voice singing out to him. “For the Lord takes delight in his people.” (Psalm 149) “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” (Psalm 150)

God is so good. He is so loving. Even when I sing off key. Even if the song is one of sorrow, or regret, or pain. He longs to hear my voice. He longs to hear yours.

It may look like there is a blanket of grey obscuring God from view, but just wait. He is about to poke through, probably when you least expect it.