Afterglow

I wanted to skip forward. The song I wanted to hear came after the first, and all it would take would be to push a button to get there, but I didn’t. I listened to the whole clip and found an important lesson in doing so.

Afterglow, by Genesis, is one of my all-time favorite songs. It spoke to me enough when I first heard it to have it played in church before my ordination, and, in many ways, speaks to me now more than ever. But this morning I am enamored by the connection between the two pieces of music because they point to what has been true for my life, and maybe yours as well: The music played first is not the only music to be played. In fact, the song that comes at the end might well have a different beat, a more appealing melody, and more poignant lyrics.

Too often, we think we’re here to play one song. Fortunately, God has an infinite number of songs and we get to perform many in our lives. We sometimes judge the different songs, choose one over the other, but the wonder comes when we let the different songs sit beside one another, when we let the early songs lead to the later ones. 

I once played a lively, some might say frenetic, tune. It had many moving parts and pushed as many people away as it did captivate. It’s a tune I no longer play, or at least I try not to, and I’m tempted to divide it from the one I’m playing now, but something important would be lost if I did. When I listen to the songs together, I can hear a transition and the melody and lyrics that come later are all the more pronounced.

Thanks be to God, the great composer and abundant song-giver.

(Ok, I’ll just say it, I have a man-crush. As a drummer-want-to-be, and a lead-singer-want-to-be, you can see why I love this clip, but my point lies in the transition and in the lyrics that come later.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rme3YsGvwUM

Afterglow (by Genesis)

Like the dust that settles all around me
I must find a new home
The ways and holes that used to give me shelter
Are all as one to me now
But I, I would search everywhere
Just to hear your call
And walk upon stranger roads than this on
In a world I used to know before
I miss you more

Than the sun reflecting off my pillow
Bringing the warmth of new life
And the sounds that echoed all around me
I caught a glimpse of in the night
But now, now I've lost everything
I give to you my soul
The meaning of all that I believed before
Escapes me in this world of none, no thing, no one

And I would search everywhere
Just to hear your call
And walk upon stranger roads than this one
In a world I used to know before
For now I've lost everything
I give to you my soul
The meaning of all that I believed before
Escapes me in this world of none
I miss you more

God's Arms

As I sat in my favorite chair by the window trying to come up with a clever meditation for my weekly blog, I heard them coming. After several days of rain, the sound of children was balm to my cloudy spirit. I stopped typing and looked out the window to see a large family riding bikes on a Sunday morning. Three capable riders surrounded their parents, while the fourth, the youngest, was riding a bike that was attached to his father’s with a strange bungie-chord contraption. I suppose it was there to help when they climbed hills, but right in front of my window the child fell. Tears followed, and within seconds his mother was reaching down to pick him up and comfort him.

More than anything I was writing before, the moment spoke to me at a very deep and personal level, particularly as I prepare for the season of Lent, which begins on Wednesday. 

Several years ago, I made a decision to head down a specific path. It was a path that had been calling me most of my life and I felt as much relief as I did apprehension when I chose to go to seminary. In many ways, I was attaching my bike to my father’s, if you will, and I looked forward to a life with such connection, particularly when I came upon steep hills. There were times when I felt I no longer needed the chord to pull or guide me, and, without fail, those were the times my bike wobbled and I fell on the road once again.

Watching the mother arrive swiftly to cradle her son made me jealous. I feel like I was always left to pick myself up, to brush away the gravel and dirt on my own and get on the bike again. Only in retrospect, can I see that was not the case.

Lent is so often billed as a time to give things up, to get one’s spiritual act together, but I wonder if it isn’t also a time to admit that we’ve fallen and let God come and cradle us for a while. Instead of doing spiritual aerobics, or peddling our bikes even faster, maybe it’s time to rest in the arms of God – daily, often, without ceasing. 

I have no doubt that such time will make it easier to get back on the bike again when Easter comes around.

Old Paintings

I came across an old painting of mine and it caused me to cringe. The colors were obvious, perspective screwy, and composition all over the place. I paint better than that, I said to myself. I must have been proud of my work, why else would I have gone to the effort and expense to frame it? It once hung proudly on a wall but now leans against other paintings in a closet of my studio.

Over the next few days, I thought about that old painting. Rather than critique its shortcomings, I reminded myself it was as good as I could do at the time. Even though it was one of my first “really good pieces,” I was just a beginner. Now, I paint better. A more recent painting hangs where the other once did, and while I wish I was a better painter than I am, now, I know I’m growing - one brushstroke at a time. 

I need to apply this forgiving attitude to other aspects of my life. Whether its financial management, physical fitness, or diet, I need to see where I once was, not just where I need to go. More important, when I look at the spouse I am, the father, the friend, I could slide down a spiral of despair. Instead, I need to find “an old painting,” one that reveals the way I used to be. Then, I can see the progress I’ve made and continue on my way with hope. 

There’s a prayer used in 12-step recovery circles which captures what I’m so desperate to remember:

“I’m not who I want to be,

I’m not who I’m going to be,

but, thanks be to God, I’m not who I used to be.”