The low-grade ache in the pit of the stomach of feeling peripheral would never go away . . . but neither would He. God would never leave me, and He would use the soft hum of the subtle pain to cause me to run to Him . . . to hide in Him, to nestle under His strong and tender wing of comfort and peace. And He would use the hum to teach me to sing. To sing above the pain, where He is – where He rules over it all with authority and with purpose. He would teach me to sing loud songs of trust and praise – in the wakefulness of the night, in the mundane of the morning, in the tiredness of the afternoon, in the confusion of the unknown. He would tell me to listen to Him (Isaiah 55:2) – over and over again, He would tell me to listen to Him . . . the Composer, and to not let the off-tune notes of musicians make me believe for a moment that His composition wasn’t good, that it wasn’t beautiful. His music is beautiful. Every note of it. Trust Him. Sing the notes He has written for me. And keep singing. Through the night, into the morning, through the rain and the flood and the heat and the drought. Sing. And teach my children to sing. May we be a family that sings – individually and collectively . . . even if we never find our place in these shadowlands. May we keep singing until the Day we begin our Forever Song.