The Lost (and found) Chord

The Lost Chord
words by Adelaide Anne Proctor

Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wander’d idly over the noisy keys;
I knew not what I was playing, or what I was dreaming then,
But I struck one chord of music like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight like the close of an Angel’s Psalm,
And it lay on my fever’d spirit with a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow like love overcoming strife,
It seem’d the harmonious echo from our discordant life.

It link’d all perplexed meanings into one perfect peace
And trembled away into silence as if it were loth to cease;
I have sought, but I seek it vainly, that one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the organ and enter’d into mine.

It may be that Death’s bright Angel will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in Heav’n I shall hear that grand Amen!

Music plays an important role in my life. When I’m running, I like something upbeat like Switchfoot, The Original. I like to pump and jab and jump. Sometimes I even twirl around. When I’m cycling and observing nature I oscillate between Andrew Peterson and Chris Rice. These are my go to artists because they combine words that have depth and meaning with soulful tunes.

But sometimes I lose the music in the cacophony of noise. I search for a soothing sound to comfort my world-weary heart, and I hear only silence. A dull, listless numbing sensation creeps into me and I find myself searching for something, anything to fill the emptiness. Sometimes, as happened yesterday and the day before, there is nothing that comforts. I sit and breathe because that’s all I have the energy to do. It is a frustrating madness that comes over me–one I am pretty much helpless to defeat in myself.

So this morning when I heard the poem by Adelaide Anne Proctor recited, I perked up. She put words to the longing in my heart for that one chord to end all chords. It gave me a reason to hope again. She reminded me that beauty doesn’t cease simply because I am unable to appreciate it. It flourishes in the darkest places, like the concentration camp where Corrie Ten Boom languished, or in the generosity of strangers who fill sandbags when the world is flooding.

One of my friends knows I have not been feeling well. I have been fighting illness for what seems like many months. I was looking forward to the New Year’s holiday because I knew I would be able to rest with no obligations. No yard work to be done. No meals to prepare. No presents to buy or work stress to bog me down. I intended to take full advantage of the opportunity to sit on my bottom. So this morning she sent me a text message that read, “Even Wonder Woman needs to reboot every once in a while.” She said, “Keep resting.” I don’t consider myself anywhere near Wonder Woman territory, but I was glad for the reminder. Still, there is this restlessness in me and a longing for comfort. So I did what I always do. Crunches. Squats. Weight lifting. There is something very soothing to me in the routine of exercise. I didn’t do anything that made me out of breath, I just practiced the steady stream of movement that orders my cluttered brain. Physical activity reminds me I am not hopeless or helpless. I can still move. So in the middle of that exercise, when all of my words were drowned out in the dead feeling of mental exhaustion, I told my God, “I don’t trust my feelings. They lie to me. I trust you. I choose to trust you.”

“Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing; heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled. My soul also is greatly troubled. But you, O Lord–how long?” -King David via Psalm 6:2-3

Christianity defies logic at times. I believe in this invisible God that supposedly loves me enough to come to earth, sacrifice his life for me, and then die on the cross to save me. Sometimes when I hear the gospel message I think to myself, “that is so weird.” But in the night, as last night and the night before, when my dreams take me to troubled places, and my heart beats hard enough to leap from my chest, I wake to tears and fears I didn’t even know I had. I cry out for someone to save me and He is there. He is the refuge for my troubled soul.

I have a friend who has also struggled with depression. I came to know her through a Facebook post a few years ago. The post was short. One or two sentences. She is someone who attends my church that I didn’t know other than through casual conversation. But the few sentences she wrote that day struck my heart. She said she was struggling with serious health issues and needed prayer. I reached out to her and came to understand the deep pain she was fighting against. Her body had become her enemy in more ways than one. She despaired of life, even though she continued to fight. I know exactly how that feels–to choose hope against all odds, even and especially during episodes of greatest despair. She became one of my companions in suffering–an ally at heart, a confidante. Natalie is one of the few people I trust enough to call when my world turns topsy turvy. I trust her with my life because we have plumbed the depths together and found solace in shared suffering. We also cling to the same hope: Jesus.

Natalie has a blog called, Blessed are the Broken, where she sometimes shares her heart. Lately, she is sharing the hope she has found through music. Today, I find comfort in the songs she has written and sings so beautifully. My cracked and dry places feel a little less so when I hear the words to Refuge and You Will not Forget Me.

Today is a beautiful day in more ways than one. I love that the rain has stopped and the flood waters in St. Louis are receding. I am glad the sun is shining and I have had the opportunity to rest and reflect while sipping hot tea and watching a fat and ornery squirrel try to steal seeds from my “squirrel proof” bird feeder. I am glad for the complaints of my children, “Mom, why won’t you let me play the Xbox?” because that means they are still healthy and happy (generally speaking) even though they think I am inflicting cruel and unusual punishment. I am glad for physical weakness. It reminds me I am not enough and that’s okay. I am glad for rest. My body needs it. And I am thankful for music.