Life's Song

Originally published in 3ABN World magazine. 

“Ouch!” I exclaimed with a sigh, “That’s one painful sounding chord; it also must be my one hundred and tenth mistake.”

My latest piano book had some beautiful songs in it, but my blunders had a way of disguising their beauty very effectively.

            Maybe I missed a flat. I checked the notes and tried once more.

            “Are you sure that’s right?” Mom’s voice wafted in from the kitchen. “It sounds a little off to me.”

            “I’m not sure; the note sounds all wrong, but, according to the sheet music, it’s correct. Could it be the book’s error instead of mine for a change?” I replied, somewhat frustrated, and scrutinized the page again.

            Deciding to try for a less aggravating chord, I began experimenting.

            Ah, so much better! I thought as I settled on the perfect chord. This piece should sound immensely better now without that error.

            Much to my surprise, however, the next chord sounded completely out of place. “Whatever could be wrong?” I asked aloud. “That one was equally unpleasant.”

            As I looked back at the first “inaccurate” chord, a thought occurred to me. “I wonder if…”

            I replayed the offending chord and added the next one, which had previously been so out of place, and-wonder of wonders- they became totally and completely harmonious! The notes had been right all along; I had played them correctly, and the sheet music certainly wasn’t a misprint. The problem was simply that I had stopped too quickly in an effort to fix a predicament that didn’t even need fixing! If I had continued by adding the next note, the harmony would have been obvious.

            Sometimes we do the same with life; as soon as a “sour note” comes our way, we begin to wonder if perhaps our life’s “sheet music” has a misprint. We wonder if God might have made a mistake this time; after all, a slip-up is bound to happen sometime, isn’t it?

            What is often overlooked is that it may not be a slip-up at all. Not on God’s part, nor on ours. The “chord” is correct. The only mistake is when we get caught up in trying to fix or understand the inharmonious chord. We think we can replace it with another, only to find, as life’s song continues, that the following events will require the harsh chord in order to be in harmony.

            Unfortunately, we do the same when a dissonant note sounds in someone else’s life. Instead of waiting to see what chord God may bring into play next, we try to find all the other chords that would be better suited to their song. So often Christians will try to fix another’s erroneous note that the Master knows is no error at all! Only the future will reveal the harmony that He has in mind.

            Certainly, we will make mistakes; life’s song is much too complex for even the most advanced. But before we label every sour note as inaccurate, and try to replace it with our own, let’s ask the Composer; He may say to keep playing. The next notes in life’s song might harmonize with the offending ones perfectly!

            

A Miracle and a Promise

By Teresa J. Morlan as told to C. Michelle Wilson


I stared dejectedly at the fading plant before me. A tear stole down my cheek, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. One plant shouldn’t be so important, but this one was.
It was summer of 2001. Four years before I had buried my stillborn son unexpectedly, and in the daze of pain and sorrow I had found comfort in my friends’ and families’ support. Particularly consoling was a beautiful plant certain friends had collectively purchased and given to me at the funeral, and through the years I had cherished it as a memorial to my youngest son.


At the time I was given the plant it was blooming, but for some unknown reason the blossoms faded and in the following years had not bloomed once. Nevertheless, I treasured it, and so naturally I was especially distressed by its current condition.


I had recently bought some plant food, and made the faulty assumption that if a little bit does a little bit of good, then a whole lot ought to do a whole lot of good. I gave the plant the entire package of plant food without diluting it, and the miserable result was that the plant gradually showed signs of demise.


I was practically grief-stricken at the thought of losing it, but as the days passed I could tell that my prized plant was dead. I could no longer avoid this fact, as the leaves yellowed, and slowly the stalks turned to straw. At last I told my oldest son to carry the lifeless plant to the backyard, so that later I could reuse the flowerpot.


As summer turned to fall, the flowerpot, still filled with dirt and dried stalks, sat in the backyard. Many times our Golden Retriever, in his romps through our yard, knocked it over and thereby disposed of some of the dirt. My son then scooped the potting soil, along with other dirt and gravel, back into the flowerpot on top of the dried stalks. For fear that it would get broken, I eventually told my son to carry the pot to our storage shed, where it could wait safely in the dark recesses of the shed until I had time to empty the dirt and replace it with a new plant.


September came. The trees were blazing with color, and the morning air had autumn’s chill; my heart felt the chill as well on the eleventh of the month, with its events in Washington D.C. and New York. I was full of questions, and for days I existed in a confused world, wishing that all this strife and uncertainty would cease. Longing for peace, I kept wondering if security and hope were still possible. In God’s providence, the answer wasn’t long in coming.


One afternoon as the sun began to wane in the westward sky, my son came running into the house with a grin that spread ear to ear.


“Mom, you have to come see something. You’ll never believe this!” He exclaimed, breathlessly.


“After the eleventh, I’ll believe anything,” I muttered, as I followed my son to the front door. 
Sitting on the step, where my son had placed it after finding it in the old shed, was the discarded flowerpot, the one that had held my comfort plant-the memorial to my son. But instead of stems of straw poking through dirt and gravel, my wondering eyes saw dozens of tiny green shoots struggling up toward the light; some large, some small, but all very much alive!


In the unlighted, damp and smelly storage shed a miracle had taken place. Somehow a misplaced root had grown into the strong plant sitting before me, the slanting rays of the setting sun shining off its healthy leaves. How it happened, I’ll never know, but I do know this: the resurrection of that plant sparked the fire of hope and comfort once more. Just as it had been an encouragement that spoke of a better tomorrow on that gloomy day four years before, once again this same message said not to worry about the strife in this world. Certainly, the collapse of supposedly secure buildings can be alarming; the unexpected has always managed to strike fear in the most daring soul. But for the Christian, there is a safeguard; he need never worry or fear because serenity and peace can be found in Christ. He is our safe haven throughout life‘s greatest tempest.


I carried my cherished plant back inside the house with hope reborn, and tears of joy streaming down my cheeks. Peace had, once again, been restored to my troubled mind with the aid of an ordinary plant and an extraordinary God.


A few months slipped by, and it was spring again; my plant was approaching the anniversary of its near death experience. And so it was one day, as the temperature slowly rose outdoors, that I noticed an odd thing as I watered my miracle plant in the window. One of the stems looked somehow different...it was bulging...something white was showing underneath...it was a blossom! For the first time in years, the first time since I had originally received it, my plant was about to bloom!


As I stared in wonder, the beautiful white blossom, wrapped in a circle of green, seemed to whisper to my heart a story of restoration. It said that not only will God give us peace in the midst of life’s many storms, but He will restore what was lost and bring more good and blessing from our trouble than we had believed possible. And now I had a promise-a living, beautiful promise- to believe it was possible. Spring had dawned on the world, and new life, re-instilled peace and a promise of God’s love and care had come with it.


While recalling this story, I realized I had forgotten the variety of my still-treasured plant in the passing years, and so researched its identity. I discovered that it is commonly known as the Peace Lily. Quite an appropriate name, don’t you think?

"Mine!"

This story was originally published in Signs of the Times, February 2006.

"Mine!"

“Chell, come play! C’mon, Chell!” I was babysitting, and three-year-old Caleb was constantly calling “Chell” (a nick-name) to “come play car-cars”.

After putting a stack of towels in the closet and checking the washer, I headed to the living room, glad to be able to leave the laundry for a minute, and satisfy little Caleb. I sat down beside him on the carpet and reached for one of the miniature cars he was so fond of. To my surprise, he immediately frowned, then jerked it out of my hands, crying, “Mine!”

 Somewhat dazed, in the light of the fact that he had been begging all afternoon for me to come play, I decided that perhaps I had picked his favorite toy. I smiled and reached for a different “car-car”. When I received another frown, equally or perhaps still more withering than the first, I decided to let him play in peace, since he obviously didn’t desire my association.

 I returned to the laundry, only to hear, after a few moments of whooshing and whizzing on the living room floor, “Chell! C’mon, Chell. Come play!”

 What sort of a response do you suppose I received this time? Yes, he was no more willing to share than before. It didn’t take long for me to realize that he had no intention of actually allowing me to use one of his beloved “car-cars”. He only wanted my companionship until it required my interference in his play, which, of course, made it impossible to satisfy him.

 As I returned to the laundry for the second time, I began to recognize the truly awesome character of God’s grace. We’re all so much like Caleb; so immature spiritually, although we don’t even realize it. We want God to work in our lives, rid us of sinful habits, and to fit us for heaven: we honestly do want to become more Christ-like, and to find the peace, joy and serenity that only God can give, yet when He reaches for our pride, self-centeredness, envy, gossip, ego, or self-pity, we suddenly think of only the “sacrifice,” the surrender, the submission, and, in the vehemence of a spiritual tantrum, we shout “Mine, mine, mine!” We think of Jesus asking us to take up our crosses; we remember the verse that says, “Take my yoke upon you” (Matt. 11:29), but we fail to recall the rest of His admonition, when He says, “For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.”(Matt.11: 30)

As I pondered this, it occurred to me that, while I might give up and return to my household tasks, God continues to wait patiently for me to decide that surrender is really the best choice, and that genuine joy will only come when I quit shouting “Mine” and begin to say “Yours.”

“C’mon, Chell! Come play!” I heard from the living room. I just smiled.

Next time you find yourself reserving some cherished sin from the control of the Master, remember Caleb, swallow “Mine”, and say “Yours”.