the season that was

      The time has come. I can no longer show you photos of the season that is. It is what it is and this is what it is: grey. And damp. Flat. Bare. Warmish. How many ways and times can I show you a dulled yellow leaf laying upon the wet ground? There is only so much.

      So I bring to you another time not so long ago. Moraine Lake, Alberta. Mindy and Cheryl and I trekked about and above the lake and filled our hearts from basement to chimney top with the beauty of that place. Near the beginning of our walk just as we'd passed the canoes we heard the strangest and loveliest sound. We couldn't tell what it was nor where it was coming from. It was an instrument, a horn of some sort we deduced, and the notes echoed and bounced off the rock walls of the mountains tumbling over each other, competing for space. We began to recognise the sounds as Amazing Grace. People everywhere were literally stopped in their tracks listening and wondering. It was so beautiful. I can't really describe the feeling it gave us all to be in such an amazing place and to hear this incredible music. As we continued to walk the notes of the hymn echoed less and less until we found ourselves standing in front of an older gentleman on the shores of the lake playing I believe, a longhorn. If anyone knows differently what instrument this is please let me know. an alphorn! (Thank you, Trevor!)

      I don't know if he himself actually knew how beautiful it was for us to hear him play because where he stood the echoes were silent and his wrong notes painfully obvious.

      It makes me think that if my own life is played with passion and trust, a joyful cacophony to God, in spite of the acute awareness I have of my inadequacy and inefficiencies, maybe what other people will hear is beautiful.

      They don't even have to know where it's coming from.
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