The Miracle of Music
I have always considered music something of a miracle.
It’s one of the greatest loves of my life. That raw materials like wire and wood can be crafted into instruments that make sound, that we can open our mouths and the movements of muscle and air can make melody. It’s electrifying. It’s divine. Even before I was a Christian, music insisted that life could not be accidental.
Sometimes when my students are working quietly in class, one will whisper: “Who’s humming?” And another will pipe up: “It’s Miss.”
Then I grin sheepishly and laughter ripples throughout the classroom.
I often fall asleep listening to music. I sing when I wake up and throughout the day. I’m wildly eclectic and can be swept away by songs from all genres. I could talk endlessly about my favourite bands, musicians and songs, but I’ll spare you from that, for now. There is a constant soundtrack accompanying whatever I am doing.
There is a soundtrack to every single person’s life
Songs burst with story by revealing secret parts of you and others with precious and painful precision. To let someone go through your music library or to go through another’s is an act of vulnerability and a privilege for you both. You show and are shown:
• the goosebumps, wings and tears produced by certain songs.
• the special role of one particular note, bridge or instrument.
•the lyrics and melodies that thread together past memories and present moments.
And you show and are shown how all these musical threads are woven into the fabric of their life, part of their story, part of them.
It’s raw material.
Right now, I’m a bit raw. My voice falters. My fingers hover over the piano keys and hesitate over the ukulele strings. Songs that were once precious are now painful. Spotify on shuffle is a bit like Russian Roulette, songs snipe at me from hidden positions in the rubble of what was and what is.
On the 5th of May, I went to church, a little bit bruised. When the band started playing and people started singing, I didn’t feel like joining in. But then I remembered.
Jesus was a man of sorrows, well acquainted with every human grief. I don’t have to hide how I feel from Him. I can feel painful stings of sadness and still sing to Him. So I stood and sang with other hurting, yet hopeful people with their own stories and struggles, choosing to sing and find joy in their Saviour. It was a healing glimpse of heaven. Lifting my voice helped my forgetful heart remember and flooded it with fresh hope and reminded me that He is coming back! One day, there will be full reconciliation and renewal. He will gently wipe away every tear and we will be with Him forever. How could I not sing about that?
Life hurts, but there is still so much to sing about. God has given me many gifts of mercy, including the gift of music. But the greatest mercy He’s given me is Himself, for He is what my heart needs most.There are still songs buried deep in a box in a corner of my music library, with a “Do Not Open” sign taped across it. But in the meantime, He has made my “griefs to sing.”
And I cling to Him in that, because it’s a miracle to me.
