I’m still wearing my pause necklace. She’s a little rough with wear. In fact, I stopped wearing her for a minute because she’s all pitted and the “gold” is rubbed off her edges. She once served to remind me to stop and breathe in those panic moments that follow sudden, profound loss. The sight of her prompted me to be still and know God’s presence and power. How often my fingers reached for that little pause button these past two years!
Recently, I picked her up and placed her back in her rightful place, around my neck. Yes, she looks a bit tattered and past her prime. Her chain is all tangly and smells faintly of rust. Some might even say she’s all used up and only good for the garbage heap. I may have agreed with that assessment a few weeks ago.
But I’ve rediscovered the value of this old sentimental piece. Although she holds no worth to anyone else; to me, in this waiting season, she is precious. Because she is me.
A lifetime ago, I was a music teacher/choir director. In music, a pause is called a rest. Resting sounds like a wonderful thing until you are forced into a whole season of it; suddenly, page after page holds no notes for you. When you’re used to harmonizing in every measure and, without warning, you are written out of the score, it feels like punishment. Or, perhaps, the composer forgot about you…
In her book, Secure in the Everlasting Arms, Elisabeth Elliot shared this paragraph, written more than a hundred years ago by John Ruskin:
“There is no music in a rest, but there is the making of music in it. In our whole life-Melody, the music is broken off here and there by “rests,” and we foolishly think we have come to the end of time. God sends a time of forced leisure—sickness, disappointed plans, frustrated efforts—and makes us a sudden pause in the choral hymn of our lives and we lament that our voices must be silent, and our part missing in the music which ever goes up to the ear of the Creator. How does the musician read the rest? See him beat time with unvarying count and catch up the next note true and steady, as if no breaking place had come between. Not without design does God write the music of our lives. But be it ours to learn the time and not be dismayed at the “rests.” They are not to be slurred over, nor to be omitted, not to destroy the melody, not to change the keynote. If we look up, God Himself will beat time for us. With the eye on Him we shall strike the next note full and clear.”
How am I reading my rest? Do I see “punishment” when it’s “preparation?” Am I reading “forgotten,” instead of “flawless precision?” Did I forget that the Composer is always, only good?
Some may see me as all used up. I may see myself that way some days. But, like this old necklace, while I may not hold the value I once did in the world’s eyes, I am still a treasure to the one who wears me on His heart. And He whispers to this tangly, rusty old girl, “This is just a pause. Eyes on me, Audra, or you’ll miss your cue!”
This section of my life-song is not a coda. Jeremy’s death was not my finale. My life-song was composed—and is being conducted—by the lover of my soul, and He would not write me out of His masterpiece.
Lord, help me keep my eyes ever, always, only on You. Let my life-song sing Your praise, alone. And may I find Your fullness in the empty pages.
Who knows? Just after the rest may come the most beautiful descant yet!
11/20/2023
Update:
I’ve finally retired her. She’s not much to look at these days. She’s worn and tired and discolored, but still, I value her. She served me well. In fact, I still find myself reaching for her, at her old place between my collarbones, in hard moments. I pray that the lessons she taught me will remain just below that space—in my heart—for a long, long time.
🩷
AS 11/20/2024
