Many times when I would here a song, I would get an almost joyful longing, but I could never pinpoint the moment in my past that I wished for so deeply.
I would feel a certain peaceful joy, hovering just beyond my reach.
And as I stared into it, tears would form and I would see flashing images; my grandmothers living room, and a blue lit Christmas tree blending into way word grass stems in lines across a paddle boat on Louis Marse Park.
I would see the stained church window panes of Redeemer’s sanctuary glimmering to the Christmas Eve Chorus refrains of Angels we have heard on high, as I sat sweating nervously in my white acolyte robe waiting for the Gospel intermission.
My brother and I traded Spider Man stories as we waited for Christmas morning.
What moment of longing was that song?
At the edge of his blessed bosom I anticipate with tearful revelation the Nexus of Joy, sorrow, love, laughter, peace, and power that it is to fully know him.
Some songs sing the joyful chorus of praise at the wedding ceremony.
Some ring the convicting agony of Calvary,
Some the sorrow of watching blessed children at the edge of hell’s gates, committing spiritual suicide for the ephemeral placebo of worldly pleasure.
Small spoonfuls of grace shower me as I swim in the liberty of some man’s genius to submit to the omniscient spirit of God and let him rework creation in the euphonious collaboration of notes, measures, and meter.
All of it something, but with a spoonful measure of grace, I’m moved to tears.
With a spoonful of grace a man made cinema I saw comes out to greet me, and a scene unfolds as a west side Einstein philosophizes on relativity.
Who sees him?
God saves him.
A spoonful measure of grace and in Christ’s embrace I see him, the world forsakes him but Christ,
A spoonful measure of grace is just enough for joy and untamed laughter abounds lost in showers of notes, measures, and meter weeping from his touch.
Lord Christ thank you for bagpipes, for congos, bongos, Saxaphones, Beethoven, Coltraine, Fred Hammond, Ella Fitzgerald, Mahalia, Andre, Stevie Wonder, and the sound of my daughter’s dada as an accompanying narrative to your song of my deliverance.
You, all those years of longing, it was you I dreamt of. It was you I longed to see. It was your love I felt. Hear bells ring, Hark the Herald angels sing.
Glory to the new born king.
And too, he brought us music with which to praise him.