March 22, 2005
The Song
The young husband cradled his wife's head in his arms and gently stroked her hair, watching her face as she settled down to sleep. He cast about for a song, intending to sing her a lullaby as she drifted off to sleep. He settled on his favorite Christmas song, "What Child Is This?" He began to sing softy, his voice catching and breaking as it wavered on the edge of whisper and song:
What Child is this who, laid to rest,
On Mary's lap is sleeping,
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet
While shepherds watch are keeping?This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste! to bring Him laud,
The babe, the son of Mary.
Suddenly he realized that he meant this song ... meant it more than anything else in the world. It swept over him in a rushing wave how much he loved the Child the song sang of, how much he missed Him, and how very lonely he felt. His song continued on, strengthened by a heart the young man had almost forgotten he had:
Why lies He in such mean estate,
Where ox and lamb are feeding?
Good Christian, fear for sinners dear,
The silent Word is pleading.For this, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste! to bring Him laud,
The babe, the Son of Mary.
Pain swept over him ... a pain so delicious he gasped inwardly. For a moment, he "passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness." He felt like saying this is who I am ... this is who I love. This is who I really am on the inside ... and I feel so very far from home. But, for a moment, he remembered his home and who he was.
So bring Him incense, gold and myrrh,
Come peasants, king to own Him.
The King of kings salvation brings,
Let loving hearts enthrone Him.Yes, this, this is Christ the King
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing.
Haste, haste! to bring Him laud,
The babe the Son of Mary.
More songs he sang, joy filling his heat for the first time in entirely too long. He stroked his wife's hair and poured out all the pain and hurt he felt into his songs. How he missed this! The terrible ache in his heart was lit up as with a brilliant light - his heart hurt more than ever before, but this pain was better by far than the ache and numbness that had been his lot. He was a prisoner free for a moment. But all moments pass, and he laid his wife's head down.
The moment lingered on for a little while. His mind soon recovered and began to analyze the experience, putting it into words and crafting a description of it. He determined to seize the moment before it escaped. He grabbed a jacket and left the house, determined to sing alone beneath the night sky with all his heart, determined to recapture what he had lost. It was too late ... or perhaps it was the desperate attempt to hold on that lost him the moment. His mind had seized it and analyzed it and the moment was gone. His mind ruled again, analyzing, directing, judging. His song died on his lips as he realized that the moment was gone, crushed like a delicate flower beneath a combat boot. Fury and terrible despair rose up again to reclaim the prisoner they had so briefly released. He struggled in his chains for a minute, cursing himself for losing the moment. Then the chains were secure again, and his heart resumed its usual heavy ache.
How he longed to cry for help! "Help me, please!" had been the silent words on his heart for months. But there was no help; there was no escape. He was bound to his despair with chains forged of discouragement and self-loathing. No one seemed able to help him, not even those who loved him. He didn't even clearly know what it was he meant in saying "Help me!" More than anything else, he felt like Prince Rillian, struggling against an enchantment, saying "Let me go back! Let me see the stars and the sky and feel the wind of my face!" He longed to go back, to feel the majesty of the stars and the glory of the sunset, to feel close and loved by God. But though the stars still shone in the sky, and the sun still set brilliantly, his heart was nearly deaf, struggling under some enchantment he felt powerless to break, even as he struggled vainly against it.
It struck him that his song sounded, more than anything else, like the desperately sad song of a child who missed his Father very much.
I would rather live the sadness a thousand times over than the ache of despair.
Help me ... please
I know you can't help, but you can ask the One who can.
