Is it the wind trying to get underneath the crack of the locked door? Or is it a man sitting beside the window? It could quite possibly be the the sound of a child, somewhere far off, screaming from inside a room; underneath the stairwell; into the pillows on the bed.
Either way, when quiet, the Whistle, it's still audible. And that tune, still familiar. As familiar as it always has been.
The churning of the second hand on the clock. the steady humm of the refrigerator, the buzz in ears from the constant chaotic noise of the world. It just seems to get louder and louder, trying to make itself heard over the others before it.
But that Whistle, that whistle stays the same volume. Always constant. Always seems half out of tune and slightly off pitch, but maybe it's not the Whistle. Maybe it's the Ear Drums. The ones that are stretched out, strung so tight trying to encompass the music of the world when in reality, it's the tune of the Whistle that the delicate, stretched skin needs to absorb.
The drum that takes a beating, day in and day out, hour after hour from constant Noise. The beating that leaves it vibrating for years until we are given new skins for our drums by the Whistler, stretched by hand.
I've been going crazy, listening to the humming of this world. Driven to the point of tears. Daily. But tonight, for the first time, I'm letting the humming die out and the Whistle grow louder. I've been searching for so long for the tune of that Whistle, but can't find it anywhere except from His lips. I've been waiting for the Whistler to speak, but all I hear is the Whistle, on and over again. I want to get close to that Whistle, and I want this humming to stop. I want it to make sense, but I'm just a note in His tune.
Alone, I'm useless. But I am the one note that helps make that tune, that symphony complete. Maybe that's why it sounds so out of tune, because so much of his instruments are playing different notes, none in accord. The hand thinks the eye is useless who thinks the shoulder is a waste of space who thinks the foot is annoying.
Interestingly enough, these scatter-brained thoughts all boil down to the fact that I don't know where I'm going, what I am doing here, why I am here, or why I haven't seen God move the way I know He wants to...
So, again, I quiet myself to try and decipher the Tune.
And what a beautiful, windy Tune it is.
