I remember God

Sometimes I can hear music when there isn't any music playing, and part way through the song I realize that maybe I am not listening to anything at all. This happens often; I will pause and listen closely, carefully, only to realize there is, in fact, no music playing. Sometimes I hit the volume button on my computer to see if it's just turned down low. But no. Nothing there. It's all in my head.

I remember when I first heard, or at least knowingly heard an overtone. The sensation of hearing something that wasn't actually there was amazing. I was in a vocal jazz group in high school--definitely an interesting mix: the painter, the rocker, the thespians, the goth, the ex-cheerleader who always suggested we sing r&b tunes (that's me, in case you were at all unclear). There were eight of us total. One evening we were in the practice room, and as we ran through a song, we heard it: overtones. It was unreal. We all froze in place and we locked eyes, all wondering the same thing, "Did you hear that?" Even our director was giddy. How we managed to sing our parts perfectly and simultaneously to experience that one moment is entirely beyond me. We were, after all, eight teenagers. Four boys who were still growing into their voices, add to that the tension of four teenage girls, and me making sure the rocker was my partner when a song required us to break into guy-girl pairs.

Oh high school.

We'd give any amount of practice to hear another overtone. All we ever wanted to do was recreate that experience. I don't think we ever did, but everything we sang was fueled by our memory of that rare moment of perfection.

I was driving up Glendale yesterday, where I can usually see one of my favorite views of the mountains, but this time I couldn't see them because it was so hazy. I kept on looking. It's not that I was expecting to suddenly be able to see them. I actually had a moment where I consciously questioned, "Why am I still looking at the skyline?"

I guess this is what the Bible is always talking about when it tells its readers to remember. I can't see God. I can't hear God. But I can remember God. Most of our interactions with God occur within our memory. Maybe today is hazy, but I can recall when it wasn't hazy and I could see. When I could see God. Maybe there's this tune that is always playing from within, a memory of something I once heard. And maybe sometimes we get a glimpse of heaven, and that memory of everything being set right is enough to drive us toward hoping to encounter heaven again.