An Inkling
It’s the time of year when I hear repeated reports
about those grand moments that we call “recitals.” I’m between recital seasons – between the a
jillion dance and piano recitals of three daughters, and the recitals yet to
come with grandchildren. But I well remember
the drama of “The Recital.”
There we see children as a mixture of ham and self-consciousness,
concentration and distraction. The
adults are a mixture too, of sweaty palms and relieved sighs, as they sport the
same mix of beaming smiles and furrowed brows as their children.
The customs of such recitals are well known: as video cameras whir and flashes blaze, girls
in fine dresses and boys with combed hair dance, sing, or play their more or
less memorized pieces. Then they
conclude with obvious relief, and curtsey or bow as everyone claps wildly.
I guess it’s possible that some of the parents wish
all of the children ill except for their own little Johnny. But I think it unlikely. At the recitals I’ve attended I sensed a
common pulling for all of the children, a hope that each child would remember
his or her pieces and do it up proud. I
remember once when a little girl got stuck on her first piano piece, and with
tears streaming finally gave up. You
could sense knots in every adult stomach in the room. But then she proceeded to play her second
piece quite well, and was hailed with thunderous applause!
I wonder if God’s palms sweat as he watches us trying
to do our best. Does his brow furrow or
his stomach churn as he hopes for us? I
think not. Surely his love is not so
closely knit with anxiety as is ours.
But I know he’s pulling for us.
And I feel certain that despite our frequent mis-steps and sour notes,
he beams with joy at our performance.
Such is his grace.
Be sure to look to your proud Father. He’s trying to catch your eye to give you a
wink and a thumbs-up. Therein is the
greatest joy of the recital.
Bravo,
Keith
