Sometimes of a Sunday I listen to the service of worship broadcast by local public broadcasting radio from BU's Marsh Chapel. The minister's sermon's are funny and informative and the choir's singing is a bliss of proper vowels and correct breathing.
Today's sermon was entitled "You are a song that God is singing." In my not strictly Christian, slightly Buddhist, New Age-y thinking I reclaim it as "We are songs the universe is singing."
I've been in bed for the most part for almost three weeks fighting the demons Lupus and depression, dealing with the anxiety and dejection of being away from those activities and people that fill my life with light, and, the fear, however irrational, that I may never rise from here, that I might never be healthy again. My faith in healing has been sorely tested. My friendships and family relationships and career prospects have suffered over the 17 years since diagnosis. And when I'm this low it's easy to dwell on all the things of which I feel robbed.
But the universe gives me little miracles, even in this recumbent state. And it's my blessing or gift to be aware of them, even in the midst of despair. Last Saturday's enchanting snow storm, fluffy white and perfect. Waking to Dolce's loud purr as he sleeps on the pillow next to me. And hearing, this morning, that I am a song the universe is singing. Even in this sweat soaked monotony, I'm a song, a lilting melody, a funky bass line, a drumbeat cast on African goat skin, a perfect vowel trilling over just the right vibrato, a stomping chant, a raucous purr, a hearty hum, a soulful cello note echoing over the ages.
And so, beloved, are you. I hear your song resonating in my heart.
