As a song.

Warmed by the breath of one soloist a song of faltering notes and humble eyes filled the space below the vaulted ceiling. Its nervous tempo struggled to keep up with a methodically strong piano as it descended amid a half-aware congregation. Brief moments of quiet artistry were swept away by missteps on a threaded melody and so it threatened to fade into the background of pressing thoughtlessness. The masses did not nod their heads in unanimous appreciation; the crowd did not ignorantly offer a standing ovation. Still, I listened. I listened to a song that was not a magnificent aria. I listened to a song that was a personal echo of a life of fumbling steps and looks of uncertainty, of imperfect efforts and missed opportunities. I listened to a song that was a reminder of the inevitable shortcomings of routine living. I listened to a song that did not deserve pity but an acknowledgment of the beauty in the effort and the honesty. My soul cried out with the strains of a song unabashedly human in its presentation, "Be still...the Lord is on thy side; with patience bear thy cross of grief or pain...Be still...thy God doth undertake to guide the future as he has the past...Be still, my soul."