The Music Room

He put the German made harmonica to his lips, blew into those holes, small shoulders bouncy and free. Soon brother joined in, taking the other ancient harmonica from my hands and blew glad into his great-grandfather's instrument. "I make music!" Brown-haired boy announced, wide grin pasted on his face. Blond boy turned his attention to the guitar resting in its stand, his small frame bent over in pursuit of drawing out the notes, gently, I reminded him. Be gentle with uncle's guitar. Brown-haired boy plucked the strings too and I picked up one of the harmonicas and sounded out a garble of noise, hips swaying to cacophony of home-grown chorus. Our christening of "the music room." And music never tasted so sweet and maybe David had his harp, and his feet danced wild and free and so did we three.  Pausing for breath I looked at these boys, at cheeks puffing in and out, heads bobbing, eyes blazing fun. It's His breath, in our lungs.

And the light that led David eons ago, it blazes yet here, illuminating tiny vessels, pumping joy into heart, a life-line for the weary.

 It flickers glory, fanning into flame this bubbling joy, daring us right into gratitude. We got a bit wild with it, this making music, gleeful tears sprang, lips chapped red with the effort and I think our notes reached heaven that day. It's His breath, in our lungs, so we pour out our praise. It's this saying thank you and leaning into the word, receiving what is present before us, eyes focused on the moment. I want to learn to make music, to breathe in pure fragrance of grace, to give thanks all humbled and bold.

Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life ~ Philip P. Bliss