As the orchestra tunes a beautiful cacophony

Last night we took my young son to the Houston Symphony to see their Christmas Program, A Very Merry Pops.  It was absolutely wonderful and may or may not have ended with me ugly crying softly weeping in the nosebleed section as it came to an end with the most beautiful rendition of Silent Night I've ever heard.  Silent Night has become one of my favorite Christmas carols because I closely associate the song with a vivid memory I have just after my son's birth.  He was only days old, and we were home - the home that my husband and I had so long hoped to share with our own children.  It was a late night feeding, and I sat in my son's room, in a big, comfy white rocker next to a window that was softly lit by the glow of our Christmas lights that still hung outside the house.  As he quietly nursed, I stared down at him in complete awe that he was here at last, and the lyrics to the song drifted into my mind All is calm, all is bright.  And it was ... at last. 

But it wasn't always.

At the beginning of last night's performance, as the orchestra tuned up and we sat listening to the beautiful cacophony of instruments all randomly playing different notes, my son looked up at me with a look of confusion and asked, "Mommy, is this the concert?" (We'd been building it up for some time now).  "No baby," I said, "Each musician is warming up their instrument.  They are making sure each note is in tune so that when they start to play it sounds as beautiful and perfect as it is meant to." He nodded, satisfied with my answer. 

But as I sat there listening to what has become, in ways, my favorite part of an orchestra performance, I reflected on why I enjoy that discordant mixture of sounds so much.  I realized that I love it so much because I know it is practice, and perfecting, for that first beautiful burst of harmony that I'll feel deep in my heart.  I'm not bothered by the seeming randomness of it because I know that each instrument is handled by one whose skill and passion will deliver me a most delightful experience if I can just be patient. 

Throughout our difficult periods, how many times have we had the same look of confusion my son had asking, "Is this it?"  How many times has our confusion turned to feeling lost or desperate, and we've  found ourselves asking, "Is this how life is meant to feel?"  There were so many years, when I felt like life was playing a cruel joke because none of what was happening to me felt right.  I couldn't make sense of losing my babies. I didn't know what the future held.  And I felt like I'd lost my grip on who I was and what I was supposed to be doing. 

Now I know, though it wasn't clear at the time, that these moments were simply a necessary period of tuning up just before the orchestra begins.  Just before that first perfect and beautiful note that lifts our hearts letting us know that this, THIS, is what we came for.  And last night, as the lights lowered to a candlelit glow, and the conductor skillfully led the orchestra to a low, almost imperceptible, volume, the whole theater sat silenced and leaning forward to hear the quiet and perfect song.  We moved our lips, as if in prayer, All is Calm, All is Bright.  

As my sweet boy drifted off to sleep in the red velvet chair next to me, I let the tears flow because in that moment all was calm and bright.  It isn't always, and it won't always be. That I know for sure.  Every song ends.  Every curtain closes.  But those moments of beautiful harmony in between are worth it.  My candle is lit for those who sit in the cacophony.  I know that we all return there once and again.  My hope for you is that what you hear amidst that raucous noise, is each individual instrument tuning up - tuning up to deliver you the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.