Conducting Ourselves

We beg and plead to be used as an instrument.
We wish to symphonically communicate His magnificence to the world that surrounds.
We want to be dutiful demonstrators of His divine purpose and plan.
We long for the power of our tongue to palatize His irrespective love.
We desire to achieve a melodic influence with disciplined precision and timing.
But along comes the fine tuning.
Along comes the polishing.
Along comes the replacement of defective and worn parts and pieces.
Along comes the conductor’s selection, out of sync with and unfamiliar to our repertoire.
Along comes the direction – the ordering of our notes, when to sound and when to stay silent.
“But what about the chorus?” we exclaim.
“Why just a line or verse?” we protest.
Our seeming insignificance, irrigated by our irrefutable design and skill, quietly eliminates us from the divinely orchestrated lineup, giving way to a selfish serenade to soothe our wounded soul.
And after a season of accolades and encores, we again return to the master conductor, begging and pleading to be used.
And we are then, somehow internally gratified at the honor a single note affords.
– Tina Allen

Equally Yoked

Like most other siblings, my boys tend to argue from time to time, which often leads to hands-on combat. Sometimes, one will smack the other and I’ll happen to catch it before it turns into a scuffle. And in those instances where I notice an increased frequency of undeserved blows, I’ve been known to make the culprit stand there and allow the other one to strike him back. I find it surprising and even a little heartwarming that seldom if ever do either of them have the heart to strike his attacker back with a comparable amount of force as was received. There is , however, one thing I can guarantee: the guilty party is never willing to stand there and allow his payback without flinching and squirming in protest.

I see judgment in much the same way. In fact, I liken judgment to a person who carries around a large stick, beating everyone along his (or her) path that they have determined to be deserving of it. What I find interesting, however, is the fact that they are never willing to hand the stick to someone else for a chance to give them the kind of beating they undoubtedly deserve.

What some people refuse to see is that while we all may look different, we feel the same.

For the loss of a child would render me devastated, just as it would a mother in a third-world country; a vagrant on the street; or one who has, by her own poor choices, been sentenced to a life of incarceration.

Does not my broken flesh swell, fester and bruise just the same as that of the prostitute who has endured punishment at the hand of her master or the child who, abused, sits hopelessly crouched in a corner?

Does not the void left behind by the refusal of me by my father hurt just as badly as that which results from the neglect that tears at the confidence of the young girl who finds herself at the mercy of the government for her very sustenance?

Do not unsuccessful attempts render the same disappointment and discouragement to all those who dare to put forth their effort, regardless of the goal towards which they are working?

And just as the homeless who plead in the streets, who sleep on the firm and unforgiving concrete – my stomach would yearn for and learn to be satisfied with a crumb or dry morsel – my parched tongue, a mere drop of moisture, should I someday, for some reason, be assigned a seat at the table of lack.

Tell me if I err in position, but did not we all come to life at the choosing and doing of a masterful Creator? Did not the rhythmic beating of my heart precede the remarkable sprouting of my arms and legs, the miraculous forming of my toes and fingers, and the delicate fabrication of my nails and eyelashes?

Did I not, just as you, lay nestled for a season in the warmth of a womb – my existence perhaps projected or perhaps I was unwanted? And did I not then, just as you, squeeze my way to this earth through darkness and mystery, after which my nostrils became instantly filled with oxygen, my lungs crying out to proclaim my arrival?

And do we not all have set before us predetermined assignments – no one’s ranking greater in importance than those of another?

Will not my last breath, just as yours, be dependent upon the slowing and finally, the closing of the beating of life from the chambers of my heart?

Until then, I vow to keep my feet firmly planted on the common ground that has been afforded to us all; and incessantly shall I exist, hand in hand and heart to heart with the brothers and sisters who suffer the same struggles, cry the same briny tears, endure the same fiery trials – whose bellies long to echo with laughter and whose souls long to be saturated with joy.

And never will I will make one single apology for embracing a lifestyle of love and equality.

This is my philosophy.

Until next time,

Tina 😉