My daughter is particularly aware of my love for music. Whenever we're alone together in the car I never miss an opportunity to sing along with the radio. For some reason, she is able to generate within me a vocal vulnerability that otherwise rarely rears its head. Even though she pats my leg and patronizes me with "you sound grrrrrreat," dad, I know I don't and keep singing nonetheless. We usually listen to Christian music so I rationalize my inadequacies as a subliminal endorsement for their lofty values.
I think I've even bargained with God at some point that I would offer him the most prodigious praise if somehow miraculously endowed with musical gifting. Either he's not listening or his plans are much different. Perhaps, like most things in life, it's a test. Withhold from me the one avenue through which I could most easily impact others for good and force me to search for other roads slightly more obscured. I suppose the true test of faith is sometimes better defined by the yards we walk in heavy boots on a snowy plain, than the many miles we easily traverse barefoot on a sandy beach.
It still hurts, though- hearing the ethereal sounds of brilliant artists, wanting to express my heart's story in those same melodic verses, and knowing all the while the harsh reality of an impossible dream that never was and will likely never be.
As I'm getting older God is changing me some. I'm coming to realize all have useful gifts even if some are less apparent than others. I guess it's supposed to be that way, but sometimes it's an especially hard pill to swallow for someone who never knew he was sick.
For now, I'll try hard to be content knowing that his ways are rarely our own, and often the greatest anthems rise from those who never even sing at all...
4 For you make me glad by your deeds, O Lord; I sing for joy at the works of your hands. 5 How great are your works, O Lord, how profound your thoughts!