Sowing Tears, Reaping Joy

Piano

Photo by Tadas Mikuckis on Unsplash

This originally appeared on my personal Facebook page as part of a writing challenge I participated in to stretch my writing:  Five Minute Friday’s 31 DAYS OF FIVE MINUTE FREE WRITES. This is spontaneous writing in only 5 minutes. The word for the day was “Practice.”

“Those who sow in tears will reap with shouts of joy.” Psalm 126:5

I enter the room and it beckons me. I have walked past it many times throughout the day, determined to ignore it. I have refused to entertain the memories that the sight of it evokes, but I cannot avoid it any longer.

Sighing deeply, I pull out the bench, and sit down. I gently open the lid, and slowly, tenderly stroke the ivory keys of the piano.

My eyes mist, knowing that I am a poor substitute for the boy we are both missing. With a sob, my fingertips brush the keys and I articulate for both of us, “This house has been silent for too long.”

They worked in tandem, the two of them. He, forcefully, masterfully, pounding the keys and her, thundering in response, filling the house with resounding melody and harmony.

“You miss him,” I whisper. “I know. I do, too.”

I gently caress the keys, bringing forth a melancholy sound that barely plumbs the depths of our sorrow.

It has been too quiet, for too long.

He never had to be reminded to practice. Thoughts fly quickly back to when he was but seven years old, and the piano, a gift from a dear friend, entered our home.

The boy and the piano became fast friends, spending hours upon hours getting to know each other.

Then the boy was nine, and he challenged himself to memorize every piece of music his teacher gave him to practice, and he was not content until he could play unaided and without flaw.

Then the boy was eleven, and his fingers had grown stronger and he was given complex pieces to memorize, and all the while, the piano kept in perfect step with him, a swirling, breathtakingly beautiful dance of sound.

And then he left. He chose an adventure overseas, leaving a silent house in his wake.

“It has been too quiet, but he’ll be back,” I reassure her. I close the lid and run my hands fondly over the smooth mahogany. “He’ll be back.”

“You have taken account of my wanderings. Put my tears in Your bottle. Are they not in Your book?” Psalm 56:8

“You know when I sit and when I rise; You understand my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down; You are aware of all my ways.” Psalm 139:3-4

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