The Paradoxical Beauty of Life

I woke up this morning to the sound of my roommate worshiping the Lord in the living room. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I glanced at the clock and sighed. It was still really early—not by most people’s standards, but when you’re working night shift that night and won’t be going to bed until 8am Friday, 9:45am Thursday is still way too early to wake up.

I rested back against my pillows, the heavy covers draped over my middle, and stared at the ceiling as the guitar’s muffled notes slid through the cracks of our closed bedroom door. The music seemed to call to a part of my being that can’t resist such things, and I knew there was no going back to sleep. Sitting up in the bed, I groaned through my fingers as I rubbed my face, and the familiar restlessness in my heart greeted me to another day out of which I need to milk every moment and make it last a little longer.

I stood up and walked down our short hallway to the living room, glancing at Jen as I continued through to the kitchen for a drink of water to wash the sleep-taste from my mouth. She was sitting on the floor with her open guitar case propping up music sheets, the guitar embraced in her arms. She held it against her chest, resting its weight on her gray sweatpants as she strummed its strings with the pick I gave her last night. Eyes half closed, a private smile curved the lips of her upturned face, and I got my glass of water as quietly as possible so as to not intrude on this private moment with the Lord.

Now that I was out of the bedroom I could clearly hear what Jen was singing, and stood in the kitchen just out of sight to sip my water and listen. Her voice wasn’t terrible, but neither could I describe the notes coming from it as “beautiful notes that slid from her throat and lit softly on my ears.” Some people have voices like that, like Megan Murphy at church, but not my roommate. No, it was merely her voice—no one else’s. The song itself wasn’t any I’ve heard—it was one of those private songs that bubbles up from the abundance of the heart in the spur of a moment, and whose words were being made up on the spot. It was a song that had never been sung before and would never be sung again, and I was there.

Though everyone hears her singing random silly songs, very few people are privy to her serenades, which I fully believe will change eventually. Jen only plays her guitar in the private of our home when no one is around, or it’s only me. Though I’ve sat with her while she played plenty of times this summer, usually she’s playing songs off her music sheets and loves if I join in worshiping the Lord when I know the song. I’d never heard her worship like this before—playing her own tune, singing her own words, from the depths of her own heart. I felt like I had stumbled upon something private and wonderful.

I sat at the table with some banana chips, using eating them as an excuse to keep listening in the most non-obtrusive way I could think of. It’s not that Jen would mind me being there at all. If I had wanted to, I could have gone over and sat on couch right next to her spot on the floor and watched. It was just such a beautiful moment that I didn’t want to insert myself into it and distract her. Perhaps that’s the writer in me.

Still, I didn’t think it was good to pretend I wasn’t there at all—she saw me walk in anyway. The table was in her line of sight, but on the other side of the room, so she could see me and continue singing without my presence being distracting. I kept my gaze on my banana chips or the window to the backyard, not wanting to stare at her while she played, except when she sang silly words because she couldn’t think of anything else that rhymed, and we looked at each other and giggled.

For the millionth time this summer I thought to myself, “I’m really going to miss this.” I wonder if Jonathan ever just sat in the same room as David and listened to him pour out his heart to the Lord. Did Jonathan thank God for the time he had, and think to himself I’m going to miss this, knowing that they each had different destinies in the Lord, and wouldn’t be in that season of brotherhood forever? If Jonathan smiled, appreciating the beauty of the presence of God on his friend, and the beauty of that moment.

Moments like these dot my summer, and their images are vivid in my mind. Each one is like a painting—and I know them so very well because I’m in them, and God’s hand painted every stroke. The beauty of his vision radiates from them. Many of those moments have Jen in them—we do live together after all—and many don’t. There are moments at CityLight I will never forget, with women who have made an imprint on my heart. There are moments at Starbucks full of atmosphere and laughter that make me smile in the quiet of my heart. There are crazy, action-packed river stories, and diverse, funny birthday stories. Then there are the moments with individual people that I’ll never forget. But, honestly, many of them involve Jen.

I could describe them all. I could paint them all. I could write them all in Full Scene detail and weave them into a story for the world’s eyes to read. I could capture their beauty in poetry, or tell them in an oral-storytelling fashion. I could sit by myself on my floor in Lewiston and remind myself of all their wonderful details with tears leaking from my eyes. But I can’t relive them again, and there are more moments—more paintings—that the Lord has in store for me. But, oh boy, am I going to miss them.

There’s no profound point to this. I have nothing to say or teach. No wisdom to impart. It’s just a moment—take it for what it was. It was beautiful. You know, sometimes I think that the whole point of things is beauty. In fact, one of the synonyms for the noun “beauty” is the familiar word “glory”. Let everything in our lives be for the glory of God. So…it was glorious.

God bless,
~Jennie