A lifetime ago, I was a musician. In music, we call a pause a “rest.” We like that word, don’t we? Rest sounds like such a lovely thing—until you’re forced into a whole season of it. Suddenly, page after page holds no notes for you. When you’re accustomed to harmonizing in every measure and, without warning, you’re written out of the score, it feels like punishment.
Or perhaps the Composer forgot about you…
I stopped wearing my pause necklace because she’s all pitted, and the “gold” has rubbed off her edges. She once reminded me to stop and breathe in those panic moments that followed sudden, profound loss. Her presence prompted me to be still and know God’s nearness and power. My fingers reached for that little pause button countless times in those first two years.
Today, I picked her up and placed her back in her rightful place—around my neck. Yes, she’s a bit tattered, war-torn, and past her prime. Her chain is all tangly and smells faintly of rust. Some might even say she’s used up—ready for the garbage heap. I might have agreed with them a few hours ago.
But I’ve rediscovered the value of this old sentimental piece. Though she holds no worth to anyone else, in this seemingly endless waiting season, she is precious to me.
Because she is me.
The following paragraphs by John Ruskin, written more than a hundred years ago, resonate so deeply:
“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. We lament that our voices must be silent, that our part is missing in the music that 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 omitted, nor to destroy the melody, nor to change the key. If we look up, God Himself will beat time for us. With our eyes on Him, we shall strike the next note full and clear.”
So…how do I read my rest?
- Do I see punishment when it is really preparation?
- Am I interpreting “forgotten” instead of flawless precision?
- Have I lost sight of the fact that the Composer is always, only good?
Some may see me as used up. I may see myself that way most days. But like this old necklace, though I may not hold the value I once did in the world’s eyes, I am still a treasure—worn ever close to the heart of the One who calls me His own.
The One who whispers to this tangly, rusty old girl, “This is only a pause. Keep those eyes on Me, Audra… or you’ll miss your cue.”
Because He knows this section of my life-song is not the coda, and Jeremy’s death was not my finale.
I can rest assured that my life-song was composed—and is being conducted—by the Lover of my soul, and He would never write me out of His masterpiece.
The same is true for you, dear valley-walker. You can trust the heart of the Master.
So, let us keep our eyes ever, always, only on Him. May our life-songs sing His praise alone. And may we find His fullness in every empty page.
And who knows? Perhaps just after the rest will come the most beautiful descent yet.
Who knows? Just after the rest may come the most beautiful descant yet.
The Pastor’s Widow