Glimpses of the symphony

The conductor raised his baton, cued the poet, and the phone sang in tune with the music of the spheres.

Or something like that.

Her husband sat at the table nearby sorting the mail. She’d just read the poem on the screen silently to herself. Twice. And, as she had so many times before, she marveled at the way his words spoke to her heart. She turned to her husband. “He wrote a poem in his journal today. Wanna hear it?”

He set aside the letter and faced her. “Sure. Read it to me.”

“Okay. The title is–”

The phone rang. She shot him a half grin. “Hang on. I’ll get that and then read it.”

The voice on the line said the same words it always says. “Mom! Call me!”

She hung up and returned to the dining room. “He doesn’t get good reception on his cell in the dorm, so he wants me to call the room phone.”

Even as she dialed the number, she felt she’d stepped into a role. She was a character in a story — the kind of story you can’t write, because the editor says, “That’s too contrived.” But the truth is, in life these things happen. They happen because there’s an Author of this story, and now and then He wants to remind us there’s a connection. All the random, little moments of a day add up to meaning and music.

He answered in the middle of the second ring.

“What’s up?” she asked, as though she didn’t already know. But that was her next line, so she said it.

“I want to read you a poem.”

Of course he did. How could he not? Better his voice than hers. Better the singer sing his own song than one who can only hope to capture echos of the creator’s cadence.

His dad picked up the extension, and they listened. She sat at the computer, reading the lines as his voice spoke them in her ear. She loved the words even more from his lips than she’d loved them on the screen. The words belonged in his mouth.

When he finished they talked a while. About the poem. About his birthday coming up. About thunderstorms.

After they hung up she remembered the technique used in movies when someone is reading a letter. The reader usually starts the first few words, then continues reading silently as the letter writer’s voice finishes it for the audience. It’s a good technique. She knows. She’d just seen it lived out. It works even better in real life.

The cosmic symphony never ends. The seasons sing; the planets dance. Nations roar in a vain attempt to drown out the quieter notes. But even the loudest, angriest nations have their place in the symphony. The conductor stands above it all. He knows this song. To Him, it makes perfect sense. And, once, on a Saturday morning, he shushes the noise in an East Texas dining room and an Illinois dorm. He silences the din and commands a few perfect notes to ring in pure, exquisite clarity.

Sure, it was just a few notes. But they heard. And they understood. It’s about the poet’s voice. The singer of the song. The author of this crazy, beautiful, painful story called life. His fingerprints are everywhere. His voice speaks in the moments of our days. And, every now and then, He opens our ears. And we hear music.