Ode to joy

And all the nations shall flow to it, and many peoples shall come, and say: “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob, that He may teach us his ways and that we may walk in His paths.”  Isaiah 2:3

Often my world is too small; my vision too close.  I get too preoccupied with me.

Thus I am grateful for the hooks drawn by taut lines across the globe tugging at my heart.  I glance through the morning headlines differently that way.  Nicole wondering this morning  on gChat what to do with two extra weeks in Indonesia affects how I understand Indonesia quake puts nations on tsunami alert and receiving Steven Crabbe’s “I can’t spare the moisture” reflections on the mundane daily details of running a health care system colors Sudan says battles raging on border with S. Sudan The war in Iraq shifted dramatically when two young men, a Sunni and a Shiite, shared the back bathroom.

   And “Joy in the Congo” seems an unlikely -- even impossible -- title for a story from the Congo, considering the brutal civil war that is ripping through that country.  But I know that ACSI has over 17,500 schools in the Congo with over 2.3 million students.  So the 60 Minutes story is about a 200-member orchestra started by a retired pilot.  There is are visiting German singers teaching French-speaking musicians how to sing Italian aria.  And there is a also a quiet hint of the Followership as the soaring sounds of Handel‘s Messiah echo throughout the rented warehouse.  And the last movement of Beethoven's Ode to Joy.  

Sometimes we roll our collective eyes at the thought of heaven spent with harps and choirs and really?  All eternity?  What’s the point of that?  Just close your eyes and listen to the violins strung with wires from a bicycle brake.  That’s the point.

The pleas from International Student Organizations are filling my InBox... and it’s getting harder to hit the <delete> key.  Is my heart big enough to hold one more?  The Penazzi brothers?  My chest tightens as I slice a mango on my morning oatmeal or flip through pasta recipes in some women’s magazine.  And last night, Wali sat between my dad and Fred at family dinner, all slicked up in brand-new-still-with-factory-creases clothes for his new job selling life insurance.  The court hearing when the judge’s announces his decision on his asylum case is April 30.  Wali ate two helpings of everything, the meat loaf, the noodles, and especially the sweet dense cake with raspberries and Breyer’s vanilla on top, and at the end of it all, as he climbed into the back seat of the little black VW and my dad stood there waving goodbye, he said, “Thanks, Christy, your parents are both so sweet.”   Is my heart big enough to hold one more? 

His certainly is.