It's been over a month.
I haven't walked these halls in over a month. Time to sweep these floors, brush aside the cobwebs. A month, & it seems like years. Years since I last sat here with a divine desire to write. Not the kind of writing that defines days. Not the letters & poems I've managed to stay on top of ... but the writing where my soul somehow becomes paint on this canvas called the Internet. It seems so commonplace; too much so to capitalize ... & yet when I do, I feel I bestow some added worth & honor to it, the Internet, & what I do here. It isn't much, assuredly. Lines & curves on a once-blank space.
It reminds me of music.
That's why I'm here, really.
That's what drew me back to this keyboard today.
I wanted to make music.

Isn't that a silly thing?

I wanted to make music, on this ancient Dell Latitude D430. It doesn't even have a space for a CD.
There are far nobler instruments in this house.
A small guitar missing half its strings.
A keyboard I don't know how to play.
An out-of-tune piano whose keys I long to touch with the hands of an expert, rather than the hands of a child.
Acoustic guitars that I've learned to make racket with ... not yet what would be called music by even the kindest of saints.

The list could go on. For one thing, I have a voice. That is no small thing, for I have only just regained most of said voice. It was robbed by a feisty head cold this week. Now, I can finally touch my alto range, be it slightly hoarsely. I sound like some young Indie artist, trying to express myself.
This week, I found my soul as congested as my head. I did not want to pray, think, love, act ... I was a weak flame, wind-whipped & dying ... I wanted only to be extinguished. I wanted my voice to be hushed, not just hoarse. I settled into a pit of darkness. I let the pain of my disease & added sickness exacerbate things. I let my heart fail & my soul faint. I didn't ask for help, feeling I didn't deserve it; that no one would care anyway. I rehearsed the lies in a mirror, like so many lines from a play.
And on the worst day, during the darkest moment, how I longed to make music.
But my voice was gone.
My hands are weak & without skill in such realms.
I yearned to sit at a piano in a dimly lit room. To press the keys with my trembling fingers. Pour all my anguish & feeble strength into some dirge. To let my tears flow as the music swelled.
Music can be a sort of therapy to the broken.
I knew not the kind of therapy I needed ... in my blindness, I missed Truth.
I was blindsided. I lost my way; lost my hope.

I dared not cry out, but cry out was all I needed to do.

Oh, dear Lydia, four days younger ... what were you thinking? Did you not know? How could you not realize? Why didn't you remember? ... I break at the thought, the memory.

He hears us when we call.
He bids us seek Him.

He called to me. Me.
He reached down & beckoned to me as I sat, bloody, beaten, in the mire, & shrank away from the voice who alone could lift me.
So blind.
I would rather have sunk.

So, still calling, as I was still rejecting Him, He climbed into my pit ... crawled through the mud & the stench of it. Picked me up, kicking, screaming, sobbing as I was, & embraced me. Held me there against Him, until finally, I stilled. I was asleep in His arms; overwhelmed by the peace found there.
He carried me out on His shoulders, singing a song of joy & of love.
I am the lost sheep, He is the Good Shepherd.
I, the wayward son, He, the Father.

He has brought me home
and so, I have found a new reason for making music.
Let these keys be beats of a drum. Let my words be a symphony.
Let His name be praised.

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