Short Stories

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The idea came to him as only a boy, sitting in church and listening to the choir lavish the Lord with praise. Certainly the voices were nice, even pretty, but human voices could never produce the perfection that God so deserved. The boy knew that one day, if he was good enough and didn’t get into any trouble, he could pen the perfect composition. One day he would give something beautiful to God.

The boy penned the first notes that very afternoon. After his piano lessons he took up a pen, said a simple prayer, and wrote a simple tune – after several hours of scribbling and ruined parchment. The tune pleased the boy, but was only a beginning. It was not exactly worthy of God. He decided to work on his music every day, rain or shine, until it was done. Maybe it would not be today, but certainly someday soon the music would be perfect.

The days of childhood sped by, and the simple tune was always in his head. As he stepped into the world with all the innocence of a boy, and all the potential of a man, neither his love for music nor his desire to please God ceased. That was how he knew he would succeed. Love and music were surely hand in hand and love never failed. The possibilities were limitless. The values, the ethics, the reasons – they seemed a little overwhelming sometimes. But every night he looked forward to sitting down and working on his music. At least he knew, in all the confusion, why he did that. Maybe he would not write that perfection now, struggling for warmth in a cold world, but one day soon it would come.

Suddenly the earth forgot it was autumn and shone with the glory of spring. He had found her. First he noticed her eyes… no, her smile… no, it was definitely her eyes. All the other girls seemed to fade into the background. The world was full of warmth and new possibilities, and they all included her. They had to include her. His work was occasionally (or every night) interrupted by bursts of romantic inspiration, and his prayers seemed to turn more and more to thanking God for her very existence, and begging His blessing to walk down the aisle with her. Maybe he would not create perfection as a bachelor, but surely it would come from this love.

Youth was a memory the day the man held his newborn son in his arms. Mother smiled at the pair, exhausted, and told him to please mind the baby’s head. He carried in his arms more responsibility than he knew what to do with, more love than his body could take. That night, as he withdrew to work on the composition, the first hint of something deeper than just the simple tune came from his pen. He asked the Lord to keep his son safe, to lead his heart toward good, and he struggled to keep his eyes clear of tears as he penned his hopes. Maybe today he did not have time for perfection, but today it did not seem that important.

The man sold some music, though he knew he was capable of better, and the family grew together. He and Mother stumbled on answers every so often; each child brought new wonder and new grief. But at the end of the day he could only thank God he was able to retreat into his study and pen the notes the day had brought. Some he kept, most he discarded. The days of pleasure brought much to mind, but it was the days of sorrow he found himself most inspired at times. Maybe he could not organize the whole of it today, but someday it would all come together.

One day the man woke up and found all his children had left the house. They set out into the world just as he had, and he never even saw it coming. He was so proud of them, but felt their absence sorely. Somewhere between the pitter-patter of little feet and the thunder of youth, he had grown to enjoy the sticky fingers and screeches of various instruments as they tried to “be like Daddy.” He and Mother now spent the evenings listening to the radio as she embroidered pretty things and he read the paper. They would pause and smile each time one of his songs came on, but the man always felt the missing piece. That faultless, ultimate gift for the Lord, a harmony he just couldn’t quite grasp – he felt the absence of it in his heart and it pulled at him.

So every night, when Mother went to bed, he filled up page after page in his study, tugging at his shirt (the way Mother couldn’t stand) when he got frustrated. Sometimes it seemed almost done, and then a single note changed the whole pace and he would be back at the beginning. Maybe he could not pull off perfection, but by the grace of God, one day soon he had better come close.

The years went on and the man spent less time in his study, and more time with his bouncy grandchildren. They were apt to get into everything, but it didn’t seem to matter so much. His own children were so busy in their lives that they didn’t visit as often as he might like, and the only time he spent scribbling notes were on Mother’s “good” days. Even on those nights, he found his head was bowed more in prayer for her health than for wisdom on his work. Maybe he would never be done, but the desire just never seemed to leave.

The man sat by his window, watching the world swim by. The children lived so far away. He wished they would visit. Mother had gone to sleep in the Lord long ago, and his body ached for her. Even just her soft little hand tugging on his ear when he said something he shouldn’t. It had been quite a while since he had last entered the study. The drafty floor and the dusty chair bothered his joints. But today, for no real reason, he found himself slowly climbing the steps that seemed only to get higher and higher, and entering the little room. With a sigh he looked at the scattered papers, and with a short prayer he started to work.

Long into the night he copied old notes, changing this here and there, pounding out the changes on the keyboard. He revised, threw out, and pulled on his shirt. Morning came, and still he sat, his pen writing faster and faster, but still there was much to be done. He did not hear the phone ring, or see the clock spinning madly around it. The composition seemed almost finished, but something was not right. This note here, this was good, but this note… no, no, that was all wrong.

The simple tune of his youth had changed so much; it became tightly woven with other indispensable parts, all adding to the beauty of it. This change upward, yes, that belonged, but this here, no, this was no good. Eventually it played out nicely, but something important was missing, something he could not put his fingertips on, but it would not leave him. He did not know how long he sat there, but his pen finally stopped. There was nothing more he could do. In truth, he did not know what to do. In his anguish, he let out a cry to the Lord, pleading with him. In the end, he could only confess his own failures and bury himself in them.

A light not of the dim lamp began to brighten the study, though at first the man did not notice. But he did hear when the first note played. His note. His music. The simple tune, the notes he dreamed up over a thousand long nights, began to fill the room, and the man looked up. The light was like no other he had ever seen, a white glow so bright he turned his head from it. The light was playing his music. No orchestra, no band could ever reach the heights of this. The notes drifted around the man and he watched his melody grow. Love hit it like a flare, and it sparked through the room. The simple tune carried throughout the song, but so complicated and full. The strings, the ivories, yes – they were all there… but what was missing? He watched his music, his life’s work, as it danced about. He felt his children here; here were the tears. His wife – Oh! Here were her eyes! Here was his past, his hopes for the children’s future. And then there – there it was. Where did it come from? Had it always been there? Had he written that?

A single violin.

The violin slowly drew out the tune, just the tune, and the man saw himself. He saw himself at his desk, aging before his eyes, his prayers floating up to heaven and his hand drifting across the endless pages, always struggling for that perfection, never to reach it. He saw the pride in the notes the day his first child was married, the grief the day – and many days after – his wife finally let go. He saw the desire in every note, the love that made him want to please God every day. Then the song reached that point, the point he did not know what to do with.

The man saw his notes, scratches, and mistakes dotting every line, and he hid his face. He wanted to hide his music from the Lord; it was not fit for Him. The notes grew with his despair and understanding of what he could never accomplish. All this time, a lifetime! This was all he had to show for it. He could never write something the Lord would find beautiful, and helplessness hit him in the core. The man wanted the song to stop, begged the music to halt, the violin humming his desperation. The man fell to the ground and wept, and still the tune carried on, higher and higher with the force of his tears. He cried out to the Lord from his soul. His heart broke.

On that very note the peace came. As the man dropped in despair a violin so deep and perfect it encompassed all other notes entered the song and surrounded the man. It lifted and carried him in a dance. Its deep harmony held him in an embrace as they danced, and the tune whispered sweetness in his ear.

Do you see? Do you see?

Before the question was over he saw himself before his eyes. He saw years pass in a moment, his hair turning from raven black to dove white, and his hand passing over the paper again and again.

Do you see? Do you see the beauty?

The man strained his eyes and looked again. He could only see himself, hunched over his desk after a day’s work and play. He saw himself writing and stopping, writing and… praying… writing and… And then he got it.

I see. I see your beauty.

As the light dimmed the words swirled around him in a whirlwind of peaceful affection.

Today I find your failure perfect.

The music drifted away, the man asleep in the arms of a most peaceful embrace. As the last note hovered in the air, his pen dropped to the floor. The last note was finished.

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