The Sounds I Listen For
For several nights a peculiar sound had awakened him, not by its loudness, for it wasn't. But it belonged elsewhere, to the war perhaps, where sporadic, high-pitched tones reminiscent of Morse code might not have seemed so out of place.
Twenty then, Morse code had captivated my attention to the degree that rapid-fire dots and dashes would effortlessly transform themselves into words and phrases. Deciphering the sounds posed no threat.
Envisioning a spy hunched over his attic radio making clandestine transmissions, I strained to interpret the mysterious code-like whistles. No luck. And their abrupt disappearance a few nights later rendered the puzzle unsolvable.
Sounds, both light-hearted and sober, are woven into the fabric of my past. One--the electric can opener's raucous grind--always set Puddy Tat into a dash for the kitchen. Even for a can of beets not meant for her.
An acute sensitivity to sound, probably accentuated by blindness and profound mental retardation, quickly signaled that our firstborn, Jenny, required special accommodations. With foam pads glued to all door facings, we gradually learned the art of gently closing doors to avoid sudden clicks that could precipitate an entire night of crying. The habit lingers 30 years later.
But rambunctious sounds thrilled Jenny. Tooting out "Buffalo Gal" on the harmonica while bouncing her on my knee always evoked the squeals and coos of delight now etched in my memory. Sadly, other significant sounds, like my Mother's voice, are lost forever.
Nowadays, especially at night, we gauge the movements of Brudderman and Maudie Nell by the tinkling bells on their collars. A slight difference in pitch distinguishes them, with Brudderman's being muffled by his shaggy ruff.
In rare moments of absolute quiet and reflection, three particular sounds, whose day has not yet arrived but surely will, edge themselves closer to the forefront of my hopes.
The Bible describes their sequence (1 Thessalonians 4:16). "For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first." These three heavenly proclamations will herald both the end of this present age and the debut of a more splendid one to follow.
And soon after the echoes have died away, I expect--and even hope for--the pleasure of one sound thus far denied me despite my longings and prayers to hear it. From the lips of one who never spoke a single word in life, this gentle utterance will ring with the warm sweetness of all that heaven holds: "Daddy!"
I eagerly anticipate that day and the healing it will bring. For would God prepare a glorious heaven and not bring to full completion the work He began on earth? I think not--and listen for the sounds assuring me that He is faithful to do just as He has promised.
Copyright 2003 James McAlister
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