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The choir sounded angelic. I wonder if angels sing. If they do, then at least today they'd have been proud to join the voices rising from the burgundy robes in our choir loft. Melodies soared with their harmonies woven in and out and between. Springs of individual sounds trickled down to streams of soprano and alto and tenor and bass. Before long they joined in a river of praise running in time to the rhythm of the orchestra. I imagined what a sweet, sweet sound it must have made in the ear of our Lord.
But then, one little voice outdid them all. From somewhere in the back of the car on our way home came a quiet sound, a tiny noise. Nearly melodic, almost in meter, something similar to a song; a little boy was singing. Not in tune. Not with timbre. No brass, no woodwinds, no violins. No cymbal crash to announce the crescendo. Just a voice, small and sincere. A joyful noise. My son.
I learned a lesson from the knot in my throat and the tear in my eye, and found out what all heaven knows. What's most pleasing to our Father above is not the sacrifice of what we can do, but the offering of who we are. And I smiled, shed a tear, and listened with joy to an honest song to the lord that no grandeur can replace.
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