Andrea Sanborn

I wake in the night to the moon rising, hushed, over the lake. I sense it there, in the soft lapping of water, in the cattails whispering in the breeze.

I drive to an ordinary errand, on an ordinary day, and quietly, tenderly, feel a weight lift in my spirit.

Ben snuggles under the covers arranged just so, eyes drooping. He folds his hands. “Pray?” he asks.

Angels hover, close. Silent music stirs; swells. I turn my head; search the darkness, knowing.

How often do we move through our ordinary days unaware of the music? We receive our daily bread and move on, unconcerned.

A friend’s eyes are hollowed. Weary. We lift her grief in prayer; we lift her up to Jesus, surrendering in the trust we live by. I sense it then, an undercurrent among our bowed heads; a soft melody of hope just beyond apprehension.

There is light on the periphery of our perception. Music just beyond our comprehension. The veil thins between us.

I bow my head in gratitude at the table before me – breathe in, and a holy hush invades, infinitesimal, and yet…

He sings over us – a lullaby, a lament, a rejoicing in our existence. Are we listening?

We look for the spectacular, for a jolt of awareness. For miracles. But God, who clothed himself in ordinary flesh, also comes on ordinary days, in just a subtle stirring in the soul; a hint of heaven. Can you sense it?

Sometimes I think I hear singing. In the far reaches of our awareness, woven through the moments, He sings. Over me. Over you.