Over the past week or two, I’ve written, rewritten, and ultimately discarded a post that’s been sticking in my craw like county fair taffy. In the end, I think I only need a few syllables. 17, to be exact:
All lives are the same
Created in His beauty
All matter to God
I think about life, and then Thoreau speaks quiet words into my ear:
“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them.”
I don’t want to listen to him, because I got a “B” on my Civil Disobedience paper, and his sideburns are ridiculous.
Am I quietly desperate? I don’t know. I don’t want to be.
That doesn’t make his words any less true.
Do you really want to live the rest of your life with the song still in you? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Sing.
At my best, my voice is…not good. But in my own way, I carry a tune (even if it is in a bucket).
I just decided that it’s OK if people don’t like my melody—or don’t think I’m musical.
Maybe my music consists of letters instead of notes; bouquets of words, and sentences, and imagery.
I’m good with that.
All I want to say to you, whoever you are, is find your music.
It’s different for everyone.
It’s probably something else for you. Your music will sound different than anyone else’s.
It should–you weren’t designed the same as they were. You don’t have the same purpose, but be assured, you have one.
For my wife, it’s singing and pouring out her amazing heart for children.
Find your own song, and belt that thing like Andrea Bocelli.
Let me finish with these words from Psalm 51–about the most appropriate I can think of, given what I’m talking about:
14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,
you who are God my Savior,
and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.
15 Open my lips, Lord,
and my mouth will declare your praise)
Certainly not my words, but they fit.
A Work in Progress 