The craftsman fingered the flute he had just made. “My child, you’re newly born, but already pregnant. You’re pregnant with wedding songs and funeral dirges and the lyrical tunes of the traveling bards. The music of the world lies in your heart, and the songs of the ages sleep in your soul.”
And the flute was silent in reply to all his words.
“Ah, how could I expect you to answer me?” he laughed. “You’re empty and haven’t yet learned to sing. But now, the waiting is over.” He lifeted the flute to his lips and added, “It’s time to give birth to a song!”
And he began to play.
And as his breath gave life to the song, the flute finally replied to her maker. And her song as sweet and the melody was alive and she brought tears to the eyes of the old man, even though he was the one who played the music and he already knew the song.
Still, she made him cry.
Just as he had designed her to do.
The party has started. I can hear the music floating out the window. The invitation has been offered, and I’m standing on the porch, staring at the open door. I see his hadn outstretched toward me. Will I join the dance?
I moments like these, I feel the craftsman lifting me to his lips again. I want to play the music he designed me for, but I can only do so when his breath finally fills my soul.
Only then, when his lips kiss new music into me, am I truly and most deeply found.
– by Steve James,
Sailing Between the Stars,
Musings on the Mysteries of Faith,
Revell, Grand Rapids, © 2006,
p. 175
– by Steve James,
Sailing Between the Stars,
Musings on the Mysteries of Faith,
Revell, Grand Rapids, © 2006,
p. 175