Empty Chairs

She comes to church early every Sunday and sits in the same place. In continuous hope that her son (who lives in the town) will join her, she saves the seat and looks toward the door frequently. I sit across the aisle from her each Sunday and am both touched and hurt by what I see. I’m moved by her love for her son and saddened that the chair remains empty so often.

I can’t help but wonder if somehow the woman beside the empty seat mirrors how God feels, not only on Sundays but every minute of every day. Arriving early and eager for our company, God sits and looks around in hopes of seeing us walk through the door. He touches the empty seat recalling moments from the past or things about us of which he is particularly fond, but like the chair beside the mother, the space beside God, reserved for us, is often vacant. We don’t show up. Some of us feel we are too busy. Maybe next time, we say to themselves. Others don’t show up because we think we’re unworthy of such a seat. Still others refuse because we’re mad at God or doubt he’s waiting at all.

And yet . . .

I believe God’s always saving a seat for us. He doesn’t care if we’re wearing the right clothes, prepared with appropriate things to say, or have our lives in order. All he wants is us to come sit beside him. All he wants is our company. That’s all, but that’s a lot.

Poet and Composers

I recently saw a 60 Minutes piece on a 12 year-old British musical prodigy named Alma Deutscher that was moving on many levels. She was referred to as “a second Mozart” to which she responded, “I’m not interested in being a second Mozart; I want to be a first Alma.” That, of course, is a brushstroke in and of itself, but it was what she did with the traditional story of Cinderella that compelled me to write about her.

Alma is a remarkable performer, but she also composes pieces, one of which was an entire opera based on Cinderella. She did not care for the whole glass slipper and small feet thing, so she made the prince a poet and Cinderella a composer. His poetic words needed music and he searched for just the right composer and in his search found Cinderella. With her music, his words came to life in a unique way. Both the words and the music became something more when working together. It was like magic.

I think that the spiritual life is like that. God is a great poet, THE great poet, and his words can stand on their own, but when set to music they become something more. That’s where you and I come in. The poet is looking for someone to put his words to music and each of us has the invitation to compose each and every day. We may scoff at the idea of being musical, but we have the opportunity to bring God’s words to life with the melodies of our lives. A successful businessman or woman uses their success to change the life of another, a parent “sings” to his or her child by sitting beside them when they’re lost or scared, a friend leaves flowers at the doorstep of a woman going through an ugly divorce . . . melodies one and all, created and shaped by the one composing.

When I set my words to music, the melody is flat and chords dissident. It’s all I can do not to close my eyes and place my hands on my ears. But when the words belong to the one greater than I the melody finds a deep abundance and unmistakable harmony. It’s like the poet has found just the right composer, and that’s magic.

Finding Easter

Sometimes it takes something in the news to awaken my faith.

Such was the case last night. Like many people, I entered fully into Holy Week, particularly Good Friday and Easter, but the services I attended and the thoughts and prayers I offered only seemed to skim the surface this year. The state of the world right now has made it difficult for me to see how an empty tomb has made any difference.

But then I watched the news last night and heard of a tragedy that happened at a beach in Florida. A strong rip current was carrying two children out to sea and their father ran in and tried to save them. He was successful, in that both children survived, but he died saving them. The anguish I heard through his wife’s tears ripped away the calluses on my heart, and this morning I can’t help but think about the impact that moment will have on those children for the rest of their lives. They were drowning and their father came and rescued them only to die doing so.

Suddenly, Easter came alive for me. As I thought about those children living in the shadows of what their father did, I thought about the shadow of Easter and how I, too, live because someone came to my rescue and saved me. Those words can sometimes sound formulaic or trite, particularly when they’re wrapped in annual traditions, beloved hymns, and colorful outfits, but the incident in the news helped me find the greater depth I sought and needed this Easter.

Like the man’s children, I want to remember the life I’ve been given and the cost at which it came.