"Echoes" part 4

Yes.
If ever there was a word more neglected than this one, I’m not aware of it. And by neglected, I don’t mean rarely used. This word is used more often than I can count in my own daily speech. It’s a necessary part of my vocabulary, and I cringe to think how I would circumvent that word were a ban put upon it.
By neglected, I mean mistreated and ill-used. I mean all the apathy and indifference that is shown toward it; all the slang and slurring that it has degenerated into.
The word no, as I see it, isn’t in the same category of neglect as yes is. It is spoken thoughtlessly and frequently enough, but what follows a no is usually much less harmful than what follows a yes.
Yes is an affirmation. It is a signal of agreement, confirmation, and acknowledgement. In conversation, it lets the speaker know that the listener is listening; that the speaker may continue with the expectation of being heard. It lets the speaker know that what he or she has said is understood and that the listener feels or thinks the same way. In planning, it gives either party the understanding that what they have said was heard, sounds good, and will work.
Yes is a promise. It is a signal of commitment, responsibility, and obligation. It binds one to another, either conditionally or unconditionally.
And many times, before and after the word yes leaves our lips, there is none of the acknowledgement, affirmation, promise, or commitment that it implies. We have verbally confirmed and made ourselves responsible, but inwardly we are ignorant of what we have confirmed and unconcerned about what we have bound ourselves to. We speak one thing and mean another.
I am grateful that there is one who does not use yes as callously as I do. When he says, yes, you are forgiven, I do not doubt that it is true; that my sins have been washed away. When he says yes, go there and do this, I do not question if he heard me right. When he promises yes, I will be with you, and yes, you will be with me in Paradise, I do not fear that he will forget his commitment and leave me, or scratch his head when I knock on heaven’s door.

* * * * * * *

“Hummmm,” the room fell silent for a moment while a student gave the pitch. Then, at the same time, broke forth the sweet melody of Psalm 32. As I drew in my breath to sing, I took in the complexity of faces surrounding me. Some with smiles, some with sadness, laughter and desperation.
The year had been a tough one. Four months into marriage, one month into school. The summer that I had just left behind was full of highs and lows: the bliss of married life and the struggles of binding myself to another. I had tasted the goodness of the Lord, and yet I had responded in selfishness and moodiness.
And he will comfort me with songs of victory and grace.
My lips often form the words of the Psalms without thought; after years of singing them, I knew many of them by heart. These words, however, were desperately needed, and the Spirit used them to pour balm on my bleeding heart.
God had promised me victory over sin, and it was not a promise that would be unfulfilled. But wherever I would fall short, another promise would lift me up: God’s grace, comforting and healing. Like a father to his screaming child, he would soothe me with his gentle words, songs of victory and grace.
Our hearts are meant to sing, to resonate with the words and melodies of song. Songs, often the ones I could blot out of my memory forever, easily stick in my head, their beats and words constantly running through my mind. This is the song that never ends truly doesn’t. (And now, I must apologize for poisoning my reader’s mind with this insane melody)
But resonating tunes are not always this evil; sometimes, instead of insanity, they can bring life. The right words, paired with the right musical notes, can act more powerfully than those same words written over and over again on a page.
And he will comfort me with songs of victory and grace.

* * * * * * *

Home.
A gust of wind blew into the open window of my bedroom, catching the curtains and causing them to tickle my bare feet. The summer breeze was refreshing after all the tumult of May. In one month I had faced the rigors of English finals and projects, ended the first year of college, and moved back home. I had made a world for myself at school, and without preparation it was concluded; I was thrust back into my old world, which I felt no longer fit me. I clashed with my parents and sisters over little things, striving to prove my maturity and independence and yet failing with every argument.
I laid on my stomach reading Elizabeth Prentiss, a woman whose words transcend the century and a half that separates us. Her words are full of truth, and I ate them up eagerly. But as I read I’m suddenly slammed up against a wall with her words:
I am in danger of forgetting that I am to stay in this world only a little while and then go home.
Go home.
The tears flow steadily down my cheeks, as is common when I am at a loss for words. After years of searching, I have finally found my home. And perhaps the reason that it was so elusive is that I haven’t seen it yet. But it is the hope of seeing it, of seeing the One who will welcome me into his warm embrace, where I will belong for ever and ever and ever, that makes my heart leap.

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