The Day the Music Died
I miss being involved in music. Actively. I mean, I lived on it like bread for four years in college, and being away from it now… It’s like uprooting a daisy from a field, taking it home, and putting it in the closet. Sometimes I feel withered.
Now, it does make it all the more refreshing when I can at least listen to good music. I sing along to the CDs in my car and relive glory days for a little while… But it’s not the same.
I’ve thought about joining Symphonic Choir and Cantabile! again, but I’m afraid of how rusty I may have become (particularly my sightreading). And it’s times like that when I wish for something simpler, like a jam session. I miss those nights I used to gather with a few of my musician friends at the SCAMPS house and just …praise God. For all we were worth. We were there for Him. And we drew closer to each other through that, but it was so… uninhibited… safe and protected. I wonder about them often - where they are and what they’re doing. I get tidbits now and then about Cherese, but I haven’t talked to Mike or Matt in ages, not to mention Makabu.
Those were people who lived on music, too.
And that’s an accurate way of putting it, I think. It’s like a staple of the musician’s heart. You have to create it, partake in it, cheer others on in their pursuit of it, soak in it. I tell you what, I’d sooner soak in the sounds of good music than the best bubble bath you could come up with. That’s the way I relax, vent frustration, relieve mental and emotional stress, even think!
Albert Einstein once said, “I think in terms of music,” and I can relate. My head’s like a jukebox from sunup to sundown. Sometimes it’s like elevator music, and it’s playing whatever it wants. But when I have converasations with people - any interaction with the world, really - the songs will change: sometimes spurred on by a familiar phrase, sometimes by a general sentiment.
But my favorite of all is when God calls up the tracks. It’s one of the most tender ways He speaks to me. He reaches down into my memory and speaks to me in the language that’s closest to my heart. When He really wants to get through, that’s the surest way for Him to do it. And He knows it. 
In those times, even if I’m shut away in a dark closet, I can blossom - nourished by the light of His face, refreshed by His Word, and fed by His hand. And I am withered no more.