Life's Parade
One glorious day as I marched along in the parade of life, I met a musician who played the same tune as I. I thought, "How grand! This maker of music shares my same notes, my operas, my arias!" So we played our beautiful music together for many a mile.
But one day I hear something strange. What is it? A note off key? Surely not, for we play perfectly in tune together. I listen intently. Yes, it is off key I finally conclude. It sounds much like the D flat of selfishness. I ponder that sour note for a long time. I see other marchers missing a note here or there and they seem ok. What's the use of all this practicing of scales and rehearsing of duets? I'm tired of this Golden Rule song.
As the years go by we slowly drop back in rank and continue to play our sad melodies. We don't even attempt duets anymore. . . . . But one day with a loud banging of drum and clanging of cymbal, a pronouncement is made that we have been caught, brought to the light and banished to the last row in the parade of life. For each note of selfishness has finally turned into a sad stanza of despair, a compilation of broken choruses, a funeral dirge - the accompaniment to the death of our marriage. The sad bag pipers wail a mournful melody, made worse by the far off happy tunes of those high stepping musicians at the front of the parade who have no idea of what creeps behind them.
This is my life, the unlucky lot I've drawn. I can't go back to the days of blissful ignorance or even before that to the years of true love. For time marches on. It waits for no one. We must join the parade, for all must play an instrument in this orchestra called life. A lucky few never hear the sour notes of off key discord or join the ranks of the marchers in the back of the parade. These musicians cannot stop, cannot rest, but are drug along by the masses of humanity that hypnotically follow the drum beat of time. Each day they longingly, lustfully gaze at those selected few who dance merrily at the front of the parade, unscathed by the scars of betrayal and remorse. The lucky few. . . .
"What's that I hear? I still hear the music. Day after day, the song goes on. For once you've known the source of music you'll always hear it. God gave the song."
This is my hope now. Each day I strain my ears to hear the slight vestige of a melody. It must be out there somewhere, this chorus from above, for I can no longer trust the music of man. It failed us. So we open our blank music sheets, this thing we call life, and allow the Music Man of heaven to write a new musical score just for us - two marchers in the parade of life. A simple minuet, filled with harmonious notes of selflessness that will carry us to the end of the procession, the last dance into eternity. Two marchers made one again by the molding of the leader of the band - the heavenly Music Man.
"Come on and join. It's the song of Jesus. Day after day, the song goes on. For once you've known the source of music you'll always hear it. God gave the song."
