Now

         Ordinary Human. It was a hit single of the American pop rock group known as OneRepublic. An intertwining of bass, percussions, keyboard, and layer after layer of vocals echoing through it. Sybille was echoing it through her mind, while she was still in shadow. The song was a techno-wizard's playground... and it was the classical student's blasphemy. Or those were the mixed metaphors that Sybille had often heard in class.

          One heard many things in class, especially in the ones at such a prestigious school as hers; the Dansforum Performing Arts School of Goteborg, Sweden. It spoke in tones that no other school could dream of. Sybille had heard them from her first steps through the front doors. She heard and, as always, she had listened.

          The tones were nothing if not powerful. They pitched and rolled, like the tremendous waves of the arctic waters. The kind that broke icebergs. Like icy tentacles, the waves would hurl themselves forth and draw the ice deep, deep beneath the blue and into the black of the ocean. It was where they could share their secrets in safety. Then, when all was said, they rushed the ice back to the surface, back into the common world. Thrusting them through to lay there, floating, agape in their new understandings.

          That was how Sybille heard it. The sound bites, the lectures, the advise... push, rush, drag, thrust, and again! Sometimes the rhythms were loud, others softer... yet they always came in a roar. Through her ringlets of honey-blonde hair, the waves crowded into her ears, pressing in until they had wrapped themselves tight around her brain. It was a feeling, so dangerous in its beauty... but then, the music would play. And like a shockwave, would push the storm back. Reducing it to a mountain lake; just as cold, only like that of a spring rain. Just as deep and blue, and full of secrets...

          Sybille was so deep into her metaphor, she was completely lost as to where she was. Still in shadow, but why? What had brought her into the shadow? A person, the gender escaped her, nearly ran her over in their haste to make it deeper into the right wing of the stage.

          The stage of course! And... why was she here again? Half of her days, the reason never mattered. Breakfast was at eight. English, history, and math until noon. Then there was a break, usually for homework. Then, at one'o'clock, the music could begin. The storm would calm to the laps of the mountain lake on Sybille's pale toes. She would be glad to return there, once she began her piece. That was the purpose of the stage... for music.

          "Sybille." Justina's voice popped up and Sybille looked up at the face that was bending to smile at her. "Your turn. You'll do great."

          Gentle words, spoken through a harsh sweat. The students were performing sets tonight. Dancer, musician, dancer, musician. Justina had been the dancer. She had also been Sybille's friend since her first day at Dansforum. She meant what she said.

          "The bright lights." Sybille whispered. "They'll wash me out, wash me away."

          "Then you play as loud as you can." Justina told her. "For everyone to hear and no one to deny."

          Both girls started at the headmaster's announcement; Froken Sybille Moreau, age eleven, on the violin. Theviolin. The 1963 Wurlitzer. Sybille had first held it when she was four. She hadn't been parted from it since; her grandfather wouldn't allow it.

          "It is not an instrument for her." he had beamed to many over the years. "It is the means to converse, to cry out. Without it, she has no voice."

          Sybille needed to take that voice on the stage now. Grand-pere would be waiting to hear it. Mama and Papa as well, but they would not hear. They never had; it was Grand-pere's money that sent her to this school. His letters and phone calls that sent her love, encouragement, comfort... the lights slammed Sybille in the face, telling her it was time to put it all away. It was time for the music; it would say plenty. It was a better speaker then Sybille was... then she could hope to be.

          Sybille counted with the click of her heels. She reached the mark of green tape at the center of the stage and turned, facing the lights. She shut her eyes then. She felt her height, dwarfed beneath the steeped ceiling. She was in the depths, her and the violin. They had been under since first entering Dansforum, until it was time to break above the sea-green foam. 

Their conversation could start. They hadn't talked since rehearsal, but she had changed the dialect once again. Converting 'Ordinary Human' had not been easy... a challenge, a journey. Insanity, to her professors. But it was her piece, the speech that Sybille had earned the rights to say.

          More metaphors. Sybille thought with the square of her shoulders. Time to put those away too.

          No more camouflage. She couldn't lie or hide the meanings when using the violin. She could only tell the truth. Like the Bible. And the violin, her conviction.

          Sybille opened her lips. Breathed. Arm raised, chin to chilled wood, the violin breathed with her. It opened with its long, horse-hair sigh. Sybille breathed again, easier. I can't apologize for something that wasn't my fault.

          The violin proved eager, but Sybille reined the notes in, checking them through the introductory bars. She wanted to pull the audience in close, close enough to hear her. Then Sybille entered the first verse. Every note leapt when she released it, reaching beyond the massive floodlights. Mama... Papa. This is all I have to give you. But I know you want more.

          She broke the bow away and held it in the air. I know that you wish she was here. I do too.

          Sybille slammed the bow back to the strings, running through the first and second chords. 'Ordinary Human' was a slow song, but that didn't change the intensity with which she played. Or stop the sway of her body. The violin needed to move, in order to speak more clearly. There were problems with the pregnancy. Mama, I can't help that. Only one could survive; it was me.

          The violin screamed now, strong and proud. Out of the depths climbed the notes, bringing their secrets with them. Such beautiful secrets! Some glorious, some disheartening... yet always beautiful. Because they were truth, whether accepted or not.

          I'm sorry that every look at me makes you think of her. Sybille's heart cried out, stripped bare with every strum, hair to wire. But, God chose me. To live! He chose my sister for Heaven. So, maybe, there was no death. 

           Her arms moved without being told. Sybille's body spelled out every measure, up the second chorus, down through the bridge. This is life, Papa! I am alive, and telling people how I live. Will they hear me? Will you? Just because you don't want to see it, doesn't mean it stops happening.

          An ordinary human... but not so ordinary today. These were the lyrics that struck Sybille every time she had run through the song. So much Haydn, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Shaubert... now, Ryan Tedder. Oh, the look on her professor's face when she had announced it! Perhaps it's not classical, but it is music. The only message that will allow me to speak.

          And was she ever speaking tonight! She had brought the violin to its squall, breaching the crest of the song, and prepared to bare its final naked wave. The mountain lake had found its way down, breaking free over the chilling drop of a waterfall.

          I'll fall silent after this. Sybille warned her parents, the audience, in the outré of her melody. But, if you were listening, I won't have to say anything else.

'In the morning Lord, you hear my voice;

in the morning I lay my requests before you 

and wait expectantly.'

~Psalm 5:3~

The Passage, The Piece

It was that time of year... when we should've had the blizzard we're experiencing now! But I digress and revel in the fluffy, crystal snowbanks with a post I forgot I had written.

It's that time of year; where the ornaments are hung on the tree (after the lights have been wrestled out of their devil knots!), the cookies are on the counter waiting to be frosted, and the stacks of cards are organized into the 'friends' and 'family' piles.

Christmas fills us with anticipation, but also an eye-roll inducing aggravation. And yes, I say that as a Christian. We revisit Luke 2, as we do each December. Jesus' birth is also chronicled in Matthew, and foretold throughout the Old Testament, but it's that chapter of Luke that's the infamous Christmas chapter.

Many know its words inside and out, from 'In those days Caesar...' to 'And there were in the fields, shepherds...'. 

So, how do we keep its impact from fading when the words become so familiar and expected that our motivation to read it suffers? This is the ultimate challenge that our pastors face, when standing in front of fifty or five hundred expectant worshipers awaiting the two thousand year old story in a new light. Course, ever think that its light doesn't need to be made new?

'For God, who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," 

made his light shine 

in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of 

God's glory displayed in the face of Christ.'

~2 Corinthians 4:6~

Jesus' birth story is part of what we have to celebrate as Christians. Just as God didn't have to create us, He didn't have to create a way for us to spend eternity with Him. He could've been a Supreme Being who was content to enjoy us for a while, then move on to His other toys. And He certainly wasn't under any obligation to use His own son to end our separation! And yet, He did. He did all of it, despite our rejection and empty worship... and it became real the moment Jesus Christ began growing in Mary's stomach.

Realizing- knowing- this, staring in awe at the significance of Christmas and the Christ child, doesn't it make you want to read Luke 2 and memorize every word?

When

He had not visited Goteborg for some time now. His last opportunity had been for a story over the country’s political climate of 1998.  The haughty politics aside, it had good people, good food; enough to make him think of sticking around. But he never had. And perhaps he never would have shown up again if not for the brochure that he had received. Dansforum Performing Arts School in Goteborg, Sweden was celebrating its new term showcase. A brand new generation of free spirits to grace the stages and the director had wanted him to see. Too late had he learned why. Curse that Uma; why had he listened?

Then again, how couldn't you? He questioned himself, mulling over the list of the school's rising stars. No, not the entire list; just on a name; Justina Caughlin. She was an American, born and raised in Washington D.C.; a fifteen-year-old prodigy come to study under the Swiss Alps rather then the Washington Monument. His glossy tri-fold read that she disciplined her body in ballet and contemporary dance. Her favorite dance however, was the rhumba. Justina's other hobbies included swimming, reading historical fiction, and photo-bombing -- every chance that she got!

         This was the paragraph endorsed by the school to sum Justina up. It was her introduction, or rather the audience's shortcoming of what to expect. So it was with every student. Their dancing was to do the rest and bring the loudspeaker up to their soul. Allow their soul to cry out, be it in passion, devotion, conviction, or melancholy.

          Which will you show me? He thought with a run of a trembling hand through his dark hair. He hadn't even bothered to cut it for the occasion. Too late though; the announcer was calling for Froken Caughlin to the stage. Applause, applause... he didn't join in with them. He was fixated on the short, raven-haired girl stepping lightly out of the left wing. She was slender, but her frame was toned into one of a dancer. There could be no doubt. It spoke of a highly disciplined mind for one still in their youth. What had he been doing at fifteen? He couldn't even decide on journalism as his major until his junior year of college.

          It's from her mother. He thought simply. 

          She was so pale. Almost luminous under the stage lighting. Maybe it was because of the damp grays and rose reds of her leotard and skirt. But then, where did the glow come from? Justina braced herself in the center of the stage. Held her pose, waiting for quiet. To him, it wouldn't come quick enough. Shut up, shut up! I need to see this!

          Claps ceased, their echo fading a second later. Justina inhaled, raising deep-set eyes to the audience. Her arms spread out to them... to him, it seemed! She invited him, beckoned, encouraged... join me!

            Music crept in and Justina's movements began. Slowly at first, then gaining speed and mounting in agility. He watched, heart frozen in wonder. She brought life to every chord of the orchestra with her body. He watched and caught every fluid movement. Sure and steady, swift and confident... yet they spoke of fears and of doubts. 

No wait… Those were his own!

They rushed his ears along with the mighty music, made so by Justina's dance. They tugged on his heart instantly, as clutching and cruel as the day that he had first discovered Justina's existence. She hadn't been born then, but even so, her presence had proven powerful. How could he ensure that he wouldn't fail her in life? What advice could he give her, what support could he offer? For her and her mother? 

And where did that leave him? Would his lifestyle disappear, ceasing to matter as it was faced with these two others? What would've changed? That had been the driving stake through his heart, the single grain of rice... his Waterloo, his Jericho...

          But, you changed all the same.  His conscience said without pity. It watched Justina in silence with him, refusing to split hairs with the truth. 

          The music leapt its tempo. Justina defied its height. It stretched and she broke past its limits. Cold sweat broke out over his palms. The fears, they had been cowardice; the doubts, selfishness. He was a journalist, a feeler, a people person- to people in over thirty countries around the world- and he knew art when he saw it.

          Art. He stated in stunned sensation. Brought to me in the form of my daughter. 

         But he was not a father. He had chosen his way, his forum, his reaping... and now? Now he could understand what the Bible meant by 'flesh of flesh' and 'bone of bone'. Justina's dark hair and eyes were his. The pale skin, her mother's. Had she been this way at her birth, at her first Christmas or for her eighth birthday? Had she ever been in need of a warmer coat, a smiling teddy bear, or an extra kiss? Was there a time she could have had that sense of protection, or assurance, or love... had he robbed her of these things!?  

          Why can't I breath? He stepped back, steading himself. It was only a dance, but he was sensing how well Justina's mother had done. Justina's movements spoke openly of a gracious heart, an upbeat opinion of the world around her. A strand of hope strung her sequence together and trailed behind her, lingering for the audience to ponder upon.

          Protect what is yours. He would advise her on her talent. If he could... couldn't he though?

          NO! The old fear was back. The doubts with them. They shadowed his steps to the exit doors at the back of the hall. They had nothing new to say to him, yet they had not grown old. Justina's music was rushing again, running, flying off the stage to catch his ear once more before the doors could give their cold snap. But why would it think that it was strong enough to lure him back?

THE END

'Be very careful then, how you live- not as unwise but as wise, 

making the most of every opportunity because the days are evil.'

~Ephesians 5:15-16~

With What's Ahead

'The wicked have set a snare for me, but I have not strayed from your precepts. 

Your statutes are my heritage forever; they are the joy of my heart. 

My heart is set on keeping your decrees to the very end.' 

~Psalm 119:110-112~

Heritage can be applied to property or something other then that is passed down to the preceding generations. This word pulls its roots from the French and Latin dialects of the 1620s, which translate to 'condition or state transmitted from the ancestors'. Other words associated with heritage are legacy or tradition.

The worldly context to see this in is through the children you have, or any of your extended friends and family. Anyone that carries a piece of the influence you've lent to their lives. Generally, anything linked to the past being carried into the future, long after you've died. God backs this up generously:

'Children are a heritage from the Lord, 

offspring a reward from him.

Like arrows in the hand of a warrior 

are the children born in one's youth.'

~Psalm 127:3-4~

But as I've contemplated my resolutions and goals for this bright new year, I find myself looking back more and more. Heritage is, after all, the standard to which most people hold themselves to as they move forward. This is where I come from, this is the stock I'm cut from, this is what I was born for... (insert superhero pose here!)

That heritage however, is only as strong as the person holding it. Think on those that you don't have to ask what they believe. It's because of the way they live their beliefs through every minute of every day. They're not just living out their faith, but their heritage. It takes awhile to sink in (maybe even an entire lifetime), but when you ask God into your heart, you inherit an eternity of love.

You carry the authentic legacy of God (the Bible) and put it in your children's hands- to put into their children's hands and so on.

You talk about your ancestors (Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob) to everyone you meet and encourage them with your traditions of mimicking God's compassion and confidence in this life.

And upon your body's death, you become the bended knee and the singing tongue, alongside countless nations of your brothers and sisters (Revelation 7:9).

I don't know what more to ask for in an inheritance; especially when it's one I cannot earn. But I do know that as I carry it into this new year, I can do so with pride and boldness. Fueled by hope in my heritage in Christ Jesus!