The Applause of Heaven - Max Lucado [7]
Some of the music, though, I learned to enjoy. I hammered the staccatos. I belabored the crescendos.
The thundering finishes I kettle-drummed. But there was one instruction in the music I could never obey to my teacher's satisfaction. The rest. The zigzagged command to do nothing. Nothing! What sense does that make? Why sit at the piano and pause when you can pound?
"Because," my teacher patiently explained, "music is always sweeter after a rest."
It didn't make sense to me at age ten. But now, a few decades later, the words ring with wisdom-divine wisdom. In fact, the words of my teacher remind me of the convictions of another Teacher.
"When he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside ....„
Don't read the sentence so fast you miss the surprise. Matthew didn't write what you would expect him to. The verse doesn't read, "When he saw the crowds, he went into their midst." Or "When he saw the crowds, he healed their hurts." Or "When he saw the crowds, he seated them and began to teach them." On other occasions he did that ... but not this time.
Before he went to the masses, he went to the mountain. Before the disciples encountered the crowds, they encoun tered the Christ. And before they faced the people, they were reminded of the sacred.
I often write late at night. Not necessarily because I want to, but because sanity only comes to our house after the ten o'clock news.
From the moment I get home in the afternoon to the minute I sit down at this computer some five hours later, the motion is nonstop. Within thirty seconds of my entering the door, both of my knees are attacked by two squealing girls. A fuzzy-headed infant is placed in my arms and a welcomehome kiss is placed on my lips.
"The cavalry is here," I announce.
"And none too soon," my wife, Denalyn, replies with a grateful smile.
The next few hours bring a chorus of family noises: giggles, clanging dishes, rumbles on the floor, screams of agony over stumped toes, splashes in the bath, and thuds from toys tossed in the basket. The conversation is as continuous as it is predictable.
"Can I have more pie?"
"Jenna has my doll!"
"Can I hold the baby?"
"Honey, where is the pacifier?"
"Are there any clean gowns in the dryer?"
"Girls, its time to go to bed."
"One more song?"
Then, eventually, the nightly hurricane passes, and the roar subsides. Mom looks at Pad. The day's damage is surveyed and cleaned up. Mom goes to bed, and Dad goes into the playroom to write.
That's where I am now. I sit in the stillness accompanied by the tap of a computer keyboard, the aroma of coffee, and the rhythm of the dishwasher. What was a playroom thirty minutes ago is now a study. And what is a study now mayjust may-become a sanctuary. For what may happen in the next few minutes borders on the holy.
The quietness will slow my pulse, the silence will open my ears, and something sacred will happen. The soft slap of sandaled feet will break the stillness, a pierced hand will extend a quiet invitation, and I will follow.
I wish I could say it happens every night; it doesn't. Some nights he asks and I don't listen. Other nights he asks and I just don't go. But some nights I hear his poetic whisper, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened ..."Z and I follow. I leave behind the budgets, bills, and deadlines and walk the narrow trail up the mountain with him.
You've been there. You've escaped the sandy foundations of the valley and ascended his grand outcropping of granite. You've turned your back on the noise and sought his voice. You've stepped away from the masses and followed the Master as he led you up the winding path to the summit.
His summit. Clean air. Clear view. Crisp breeze. The roar of the marketplace is down there, and the perspective of the peak is up here.
Gently your guide invites you to sit on the rock above the tree line and look out with him at the ancient peaks that will never erode. "What is necessary is still what is sure," he confides. "just remember:
"You'll go