Remember when you were in the band in 5th grade? Remember when you thought you rocked at the trumpet? Remember when your mom wore earmuffs around the house when you practiced the trumpet? Remember when your band teacher placed you as last chair?
No? Oh wait, maybe that was all just me.
Regardless, let's be honest...the 5th grade band isn't Mozart's symphony. In all likelihood, most 5th grade bands are a clamor of noises. A bass drum hit here. A trumpet toot there. A clarinet screech all too often. A trombone mishap every now and then. It was bad. It was a bunch of noise chaos -- with our sweet parents sitting there in the stands just trying to make sense of it all. Was this supposed to be Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker, or the Ohio State fight song? We were never really quite sure.
I've, in recent days, felt like my parents sitting in the stands, listening to our band's ruckus and trying to make sense of it all. The world has lately felt like a 5th grade band concert.
Sometimes quiet murmurs, sometimes loud roars resonating in my ears: My parents have communicated, for 24 years, I should be "this." My friends have said that I'm "this." I've dated guys who have said I'm "this." I've listened to songs who insinuate I should act like "this." I've watched movies who say I should be "this." I've read books who communicate I should be "this." The list goes on and on.
I'm beginning to find it exhausting. My soul was not created for clamor. It was created to know peace.
I'm turning the strings of my soul and tuning it to hear the voice of its creator. The voice of the one who knows very well who I am, who I "should" be.
The clamor will continue, I'm well aware of that.
But may my soul find its identity in who my creator has said that I am. For who knows better an object than its artful creator?
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