Stella, with her four-year-old doe legs, pranced around the room humming some unintelligible song, then nestled herself into my lap with one swift leap. We were sitting at Pop-Pop’s baby grand, the one that filled the corner of his den, the one that often tinkered along on winter nights to the slow rise of flame in the fireplace. I never had lessons, but those keys had melodies that I spent hours in the pursuit of discovering.
Stella sat upright and turned her round-cheeked face toward mine and said, “Play the rain. But don’t play the rain outside right now, play the rain that will fall tonight, when we are tucked in, almost asleep.”
Quite the order it was, but like many of Stella’s instinctive requests, my heart felt awakened with the invitation.
Stella hopped down, pulled a throw from the sofa, and dragged it across the floor to drape over my shoulders, whispering, “Remember, you are almost asleep.” With a deep breath, I rested my fingers upon the cold keys, and closed my eyes.
We are like rain— beautiful, temporary, orchestral wonders, evoking the mystery and majesty of God.
Such wonders invade and capsize me in my quiet and vulnerable moments. I soak in the personal symphony He’s written to me, the precious nature of His thoughtfulness. How each drop falls, where it falls, when it falls, in its relationship to us, to our place, our distance, our ear’s curve—it is temporary and entirely unique. And like the symphony of nighttime rain, we are fashioned with such a purpose: to embrace our intricate and beautiful quality, that of His pleasure.
May the symphonies that surround us, the wonders of His love for us, remind us of our distinct beauty and purpose.
May we pursue the discovery of the melodies He’s written on our hearts.
May we embrace the invitation to live childlike and free.
May we play the rain.