On a recent late spring evening, not long enough ago for the memory to have faded, eight friends gathered in a home for dinner. Dinner and dominoes. And laughter. Perhaps, a few tears. It happens.

We’ve known each other for forty years plus a few. There have been tears. Some of them have come from the laughter. Laughter that starts with a giggle—perhaps a shriek—erupting into full-body fits (you know the kind), and eventually calming down into gasps of amusement with eyes being wiped on sleeves and spare napkins.

Of course, many of the tears never started with laughter. We’ve all raised children; heartbreak was inevitable. Parents and siblings have left this life and we’ve comforted and mourned. All of us are carrying heavy loads of one sort or another by now. We usually share the loads with each other, and we pray about them.

And still, we sit and eat, and laugh. And cry.

And sometimes, we play a game of chicken-foot with the dominoes.

On this Monday evening though, it seemed that something was missing. Something more than a game of dominoes was called for. As we played a second (or was it a third?) round, someone suggested we just needed to sing a little.

So, we sang. A little.

Sometime during the hour and a half we sang, in between songs I wondered aloud if we could keep our friends beside us when we sing in that great multitude of saints in Heaven someday. It only seems logical to me. We’ve sung and harmonized together for over forty years here; surely, we’ll be able to hear these lovely voices when we get up there.

Someone suggested that the singing would be so much better there. I didn’t argue, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that much better.

We sang praises. We sang scripture songs. We even sang a kid’s song or two.

There weren’t any spare napkins close to the piano, but I saw some eyes wiped on sleeves a time or two. And, when we finally stopped, hoarse and sung-out, there were smiles on every face.

Somehow, while we sang together, the atmosphere was brighter—the air we breathed in just a little sweeter.

And as we said our goodbyes, all agreed that the time of singing was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits and turn our eyes away from our problems.

No. The children and grandchildren trapped in a foreign country at the epicenter of the pandemic hadn’t suddenly been flown out (that miracle would wait a day or two), siblings facing surgery weren’t instantly healed, and a grandchild dealing with the prospect of a lifelong disease hadn’t been given a reprieve while we sang.

And yet, our burdens were distinctly lighter. All of them.

The storm still raged, but there was joy in spite of it. And peace.

I thought about the evening throughout the week. And I struggled to explain it. I couldn’t.

Then today, on Sunday afternoon, the Lovely Lady and I made our way to the band room at the local middle school for a rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal I had been a part of since the start of the Covid pandemic, nearly a year and a half ago.

The entire group would practice six or seven songs. We (the Lovely Lady and I) had one to play for. The music parts called for a horn and a flute on one song. Only one. I wasn’t sure it would be worth going for.

We went anyway.

We sat, listening to the saxes, trombones, and trumpets as they worked out their parts. I can’t speak for the Lovely Lady, but for me, it was delightful. Yes, there were wrong notes. Perhaps, there might have been some intonation problems. It didn’t matter.

It was wonderful.

And, when it came time for us to play our song, we became part of that community of music makers. We contributed to the wrong notes, at least I did. I may have made an entrance on the wrong beat, or even in the wrong measure. It didn’t matter.

Together, we made music.

There is joy in shared music, a satisfaction beyond the act of combining tonal qualities and counting beats. The process of creating harmonies and countermelodies out of the silence moves well past what the scientific method can explain.

As the music ended and the Lovely Lady and I made our exit, my mind drifted back to that evening of music making with our old friends, wanting to make comparisons. But somehow, the comparisons seemed to fail.

I want to say that the experience with our friends was a high and holy moment.

And it was.

Praises offered to God in a time of storm are repaid with the certain knowledge, the reassurance, of His loving arms holding us tightly through the raging waters. A faith offering, if you will, affirming that our God is faithful.

Paul and Silas knew it as they lay imprisoned in the jail in Philippi. At midnight, they sang hymns. Locked behind bars, with their feet in shackles, they sang and prayed loudly. Knowing it was likely to earn them extra stripes on their backs, they still praised the One they trusted with their lives. (Acts 16:16-40)

We are encouraged, as followers of God, to let His songs fill our hearts and the air around us. Throughout life, whatever our circumstances, we sing, bearing witness to His faithfulness.

And what of the other experience, playing with the folks in the band room? If the singing was high and holy, how do I describe that?

Odd. I think it, too, is high and holy, albeit from a little more earthy starting point. We are God’s creation, designed by Him to live in community. Music is a gift from Him, as is all art, meant to raise our sights from the sweat and pain of everyday existence.

Mere survival was never his plan for humanity. We were designed to thrive and, moreover, to thrive with joy. From Jubal in the early pages of Genesis until modern-day prodigies, music has been a constant in history, a vehicle for faith, for history (storytelling), for entertainment.

As with all of God’s good gifts, many have used it for base, profane ends. And still, music and art have the ability to raise our spirits, to lift our hearts from the burdens of pain and lost love, to bring to mind things higher than our ofttimes drab and difficult circumstances.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights… (James 1:17 ~ NKJV)

Bill Gaither wrote the words I sang years ago in a men’s quartet. More than once, I’ve wondered if it was proper to add the part about making music with friends. I’m coming to believe it’s completely appropriate.

“Loving God, loving each other,
Making music with my friends.”

As often as not these days, the music I make with others of kindred spirits could best be described as joyful noise. Contrary to our human comparisons and judgmental spirits, God doesn’t ask us to offer Him perfection.

Rather, He asks us to come to Him with open hearts and hands, giving our sincere offerings freely. Joyful noise is a sweet offering to His ears.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the lands! (Psalm 100:1)

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

 

It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to men.
(C.S. Lewis)

My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
(Psalm 57:7 ~ NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.