I’ve got the distinct impression I’m supposed to write about my birthmonth of August.
At a personal level, this month will go down in memory as one peopled by old friends, new friends, young old friends, new older friends, and everyone in between. This includes faraway friends, who out of nowhere messaged me that they were visiting and was I free to hang with them?
This month goes down in memory as the time I met the frontman, Wayne Huirua, of my favourite Christian band from New Zealand, the original Parachute. We recorded a chat filled with easy laughter and repartee, we had North Indian food and pina coladas; he had to listen to one of my original compositions while catching a ride in my car.
An added bonus was meeting American worship leader and pastor John W Stevenson. My long afternoon chat with him and Valerie Harris, his accompanist who plays beautifully, for my radio podcast created this and this for Featherglass.
This month will go down in memory as the time I hit a wall during one of my trail runs. My discouragement was augmented when I still couldn’t fit into some of my skinny jeans. But soon after, I suddenly understood what it meant to run faster than I ever had. And to enjoy it.
It was a literal rush, an adrenaline rush, a spiritual climb, to prepare to sing an original song from last year, in front of a bunch of people. And now that it’s over, there’s a huge sense of relief, gladness that I gave it my all and that God was pleased with it, and that maybe I have come back from a place of exile (Jeremiah 29:13).
But even when one is in exile, one is never left alone. He promises never to desert you or forsake you, and this one thing is true.
Though there are disappointments and unmet expectations, failed promises, things that leave us irrationally sad at the happiest of moments, there is, if we choose to see or hear , a song that whispers deliverance, a word or two that shelters the pain, and in our exhausted embrace of hope in all things unseen, we believe, beyond shadows of doubt, that everything is going to be alright.
Poets are never young, in one sense. Their delicate ear hears the far-off whispers of eternity, which coarser souls must travel towards for scores of years before their dull sense is touched by them. A moment’s insight is sometimes worth a life’s experience. ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr (29 August 1809)
Read August Moon Part 1 here.