Life is Full of Music

I hear the stray notes everyday. She plays scales so high my ears ring. She feels the music deep. Her flute a constant.

He hunts the keys on the piano. He has music in his bones, searching for the harmony.

She bangs out her own chords and lives in crescendo.

We search for melody.

I didn’t know I would raise musicians. I didn’t know their making of music would make me.

It’s hard not to cringe at the off notes in life. The long days when you feel so out of tune as a mother. Nothing is harmonious: the kids nitpick, the biscuits burn, the dog carries mud, the marriage limps along on a difficult day.

But somehow, someway He turns the noise into music.

Her ear-splitting scales create the breathtaking notes that becomes Sonata, a masterpiece.

His hunt and peck of the keys are practice being made perfect, a recital in-the-making.

These off notes are choreographed into the symphony of our lives. When singled out, they don’t sound right or make sense. The up days when everything flows, mix with the down days when nothing goes right. It mirrors the staff on a sheet of music. Up and down. Down and up.

But when all our days are woven together, they are music.

And I know this to be true: God is God in the high spots–just as He is God in the low places. He never changes. He is the constant.

It’s all music to Him.

Life is a concert.

Play for the audience of One.


  1. 3


    What a beautiful post…. Am thinking of similar things but not so beautifully written as this! Is real encouragement. And now it’s making me chuckle thinking how my life might sound at the moment :)

  2. 4


    AND it’s a good timely reminder to play for the Audience of One, that if I live my life knowing that even if my husband or children or friends can’t see what I’m doing, God can. And His live and acceptance and grace is all I need. x

  3. 6


    So beautiful. Hadn’t considered in a while the amount of time (and money!) my parents invested in making my childhood a musical one. It still pays dividends to this day.

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