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Let Us Sing
Topics: truth, hope, God, music, park, inspirational
Posted by ClaytonChancey Tue Aug 21, 2007 09:17:54 PDT
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The wind tickled my ears. I exhaled, staring up into the leaf-laden branches shuffling in the wind. Curious blades of grass bearing gleaming bulbs of morning dew formed a green bed around me. I was with God. Face-up in the grass, bared to His holiness, shivering in the cold of my depravity, yet burning with the desire to meet Him again.

     A little sparrow chirped a sonnet in some high nest, and the passion behind his song made me smile. Just a little creature, a tiny bird, praising his Creator. If we didn’t join him in his harmonious tune, then the rocks beneath our feet would burst out in a deep-throated chant. In a rumbling anthem screaming of God’s magnificence. I closed my eyes.

     I was almost there. Almost at that place. A rolling, thunderous vibrato hummed somewhere deep in the ground. The lisp of the wind in the leaves crescendoed. The little footfalls of the ants marching past my ears fell into the mix, tip-tapping like the kinetic pulse of drums. The music tightened, and the sparrow’s melody rose into a solo. To a passerby, it was merely mindless chirping. But to those with ears to hear, it was a glorious hymn, rising and falling in the throes of emotion. A footfall jerked me from the music.

“Hey.”

I shifted on the grass. It was Randy. He wore a faded black sweatshirt over an old Metallica t-shirt. His jeans sagged below his waist, and a silently rusting chain linked his back pocket to a belt loop. His bleached blonde hair was shoulder-length, draped over his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. Beneath those oily locks, his bloodshot eyes sat in sunken, deformed sockets; the two vein-riddled eyeballs were under his temples. A nearly barren forehead, only stretched skin where the eyes should have been. Hypertelorism, his parents had told him after his first day of second grade; after the first kids had started to tease.  Clinically speaking, it was a relatively mild case, but severe enough to make him miserable.

     I had first met Randy two years earlier, in the doorway of Northington Baptist Church. He had shuffled into the youth ministry’s fellowship room, clad in black, looking like a troubled mouse with nowhere to hide. And the cat? Humanity, the world, everything. But especially church. Especially Christians. I had flagged him down halfway to the pews, and slid a Sunday morning bulleting into his hand. As he glanced back, I caught a glimpse of his face. He must have seen my shock. He had shuffled on down the aisle with a muttered, “Thanks.”

     When he showed up again the following Sunday, I had made him my summer project. Find out who he was, what he was missing, where he was with God. Looking back, I think I might have bitten off more than I could chew at the time.

“What’re you doing?” He asked, wrenching me from my ponderings.

“Thinking, that’s all. Sorry.” I shifted into a sitting position.

The oak scratched against my back. If I could hurry through this, then I could get back to the music.

“S’ okay.” He sat down beside me.  I caught a whiff of alcohol, which sobered me, ironically.

“How’ve you been, man?”

He sighed.  “Not so hot. I got grounded again.”

“Why?”

             He tensed up. Anger.

“It wasn’t even my fault! My curfew’s at eleven. Always has been. I was out, and it was like ten thirty. My mom called and told me to come home, didn’t even say why. I told her I didn’t need to be home until eleven.”

“And then she grounded you.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “for no reason.”

But there was more. I waited. The poor kid had gone through a lot. First and foremost, his face. The deformities had ruined his social life, and left him with nothing. Nothing at all. That was just the tip of the iceberg. When he was thirteen, his parents had divorced. His dad – a hopeless drug addict – had left his mother when she had entered rehab to get off her own stuff. She had met a guy there who had apparently been a true comfort to her. He had just come out of a heavy addiction to methamphetamine, and dearly wanted to get his life back in order. Randy’s mom had started going to a little church with this new guy, dragging Randy along with her… One thing leads to another, and within four months, Randy’s mom was engaged. Randy hated the man. He saw his mother’s newfound devotion to God as a product of her relationship, and he tried to ruin that relationship. It was hard for them all, but especially for Randy. At least his mother and her fiancée had each other, but Randy was again left empty-handed.

     Shafts of golden sunlight bit through the leaves above, and flickered as the tree swayed. Flecks of dust drifted through the light by the millions, illuminated briefly, until disappearing into the backdrop of the park. An allegory rang sharply in my mind. There was another reality, hidden by the backdrop of this world, simply waiting. The glorious light of truth, when cast properly, illuminated this other reality – this marvelous world – and we could revel in its serenity. In its purity.

     The purr of the crickets rose, ever swelling, growing into an orchestra performing a mournful tune. The buzzing, tear-inducing moan of a sobbing cello, the wailing tremolo of a viola. Praising God. Mourning our worldly depravity, sprawled at Christ’s feet, begging His mercy.

“So how ‘bout you?” Interjected Randy.

I stumbled back into reality. Or was it?

“What?”

“How you doing?”

“Oh. Okay, I guess… Good, actually. We just finished up the house.”

“Cool. My mom mentioned that, I think.”

“Yeah, I might have told her the other day.” I swallowed.  “So how’s everything going between you two, anyway? Besides being grounded.”

            He shrugged.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really, but I’m gonna end up doing it anyway.”

I chuckled. Smart kid. “You’re right. Go ahead.”

He crossed his arms, and stared out across the park.

“I dunno, she just hates me, that's all.  She's always getting on me for something...it's always something with her.  And she gets angry.  Like if my music is too loud, she just yells.    I try to be calm about it, you know, like kinda stay out of her way.  But sometimes...sometimes I just lose it and blow up on her.  And she yells back.  But I mean, it's like she's trying to pick apart my life.  Let's screw with Randy, that sounds fun.  Any time she's bored.  I guess just since she started going to church.  Like since she's such a holy-roller now, she can afford to bring the Bible down on my head.  Well, I don't care what she says...don't care what God tells her to do or whatever.  As long as she can keep it to herself, that's fine, but just don't start screwing with me.  That pisses me off, you know?”

“Randy…man, you’ve heard Pastor Dave up there talking to you for way

     too long to call it all just ‘Jesus-stuff’. I’ve prayed for you for so long, you’d

     be blown away by how much effort we’ve put into you alone.”

He nodded, gazing at the grass. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Just reminding you.”

“Well, yeah, I know that you guys are trying to convert me or whatever.

     We’ve been playing that game for like a year now.”

“And?”

“And I’m saying that I’m not falling for this crap anymore. I’m tired of the

     Jesus stuff, okay? I came here to say bye.”

I leaned forward. Please, God. This can’t be. “Randy…”

“Don’t start. My life’s been a living hell so far, and I’m pretty sick of it

     now. My mom’s a Jesus-freak, I have no friends except you, and now

     you’re beating me over the head with your Bible. My life sucks, man.”

“And you think that it won’t if you kill yourself?”

“Yeah.” He looked me in the eye. “Yeah, I do.”

“You know too much about hell to believe what you just said. You want

     to kill yourself now, but imagine when your body is burning and you

     can’t die. Don’t let yourself go like this, Randy.”

“Even if I didn’t want to, I’d be doing the world a favor.”

“A favor? Randy, if you call this a favor, you’re out of your mind.”

“Well, if I was dead, you wouldn’t have to deal with this, would you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. And so would your mom, and her

     fiancée, and our entire church. We would have to carry the weight of

     your death. We would have to deal with the fact that we didn’t rescue

     your soul before you died.”

He looked away, shaking his head. “That’s your problem.”

I put my head in my hands. How could this be happening? After two years of nothing but growth, why this sudden reversal? What made someone discovering hope suddenly plummet into a pit of hopelessness? It hit me.

     This wasn’t a reversal. This was a dam. A wall, a blockade, a door that no-one had yet opened. This was the last stand of sin in his life, and it was refusing to cave. This was keeping back the floodwaters of life. One slip now, and his soul could be forever gone.

     I couldn’t stop him, of course. Even if I went home with him, took away his pills or his knife or whatever; even if I told his parents and they locked him in his room…he’d still find a way. The demonic grasp on his life would still drive him to commit suicide. I wondered how he planned to do it; if he wanted to slit his wrists, or to lock himself in the garage and let the car run. Or overdose on some drug, or any number of fatal methods. But I couldn’t peek into his heart. In fact, not even he could. He was oblivious to the raging battle for his soul. I could do nothing but pray.

     So I did.

     This boy needed to hear the praises of creation. Either he would worship, or the rocks would. Lord, open his ears to hear, clean out the strong dam of sin in his life, and wash out even the last bits of debris. Let the music begin.

     It started with the wind. Almost supernaturally, the breeze lifted and intensified. Fallen leaves stirred on the park walkway, and skittered along the walk like orange powerboats on a cement river. The tree above groaned, and the branches twitched and rustled suddenly. A shadow swept across the park with eerie swiftness as the clouds gathered above, darkening the skies. Thunder rolled across the heavens like a startling gong.

     A crystal drop of liquid plummeted from the clouds above, and with a cleansing splash, exploded on my face. Like a crashing cymbal. All creatures of our God and King! Lift up your voices! Let us sing!

     The rain came, like a blazing drum-roll, roaring across the field and soaking everything in its path. The branchwork above was no roof. The torrent broke upon us with surprising suddenness. I knew then that the dam had sprung a leak.

     The tree’s subtle groaning was the mournful bass song; a low, throbbing melody. The tone of the downpour was a glorious trumpet line, a hymn of old. Blades of grass collapsing under their sky-gifted weight was the subtle beat of a timpani. And somehow, over it all, that sparrow still sang.

     But this time, it was screaming.

     Shouting the very breath from its lungs, eyes plastered shut, soaked by the rain…screaming to the Creator. Oblivious, helpless, selfless devotion, exemplified in that lone harmony – in that single scream. It was an anthem, a banner, a glorious, glorious tribute. That scream said something.

“My Life is Yours.”

Yours eternally, Yours wholly, Yours purely, Yours solely. With every breath, every action, thought, motive, word I will praise my Creator, and Him alone. I may be soaked, I may be broken and bleeding, but even if I cannot move, my thoughts will be His. Until the day I die, I will live in the hope of Your promise, in the shelter of Your wing. My Life is Yours.

     I opened my eyes, blinking out the rain. I glanced to my side. That scream had been Randy’s. And he was sprawled on the grass, face muddied, sobbing. He was completely soaked, blonde hair plastered to his contorted face, streams of rain flowing from his nose and chin, mingled with his own tears. I felt a sob rising, and let it come. This was a thing of glorious beauty. There was a chorus of angels weeping with joy, somewhere, gazing down on this scene.

     Randy lifted himself to his knees. His eyes were red with tears, but his face was radiant with joy. He grasped me firmly by the shoulder, with some newfound confidence. This was a radically transformed life. He leaned in close, dribbling water on my chest and shoulder, and whispered something.

“I’m clean.”

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