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I find my Bible opening more and more often to the Psalms. Why? The words mirror my heart. Joy bubbles up. Truth is extolled. Grief consumes.

As though I live a symphony, I am part of those harmonious undertones. Discordant notes trill with the more pleasant ones. My fingers fly up and down the scales without a moment’s pause. Resting in joy. Believing the truth. Turned inside out with pain and longing.

Psalm 121, a song of ascents, stands as the expert conductor. The wand delicately points and waves here and there, commanding with gentleness and authority. “I will lift my eyes to the hills – From whence comes my help?” the flutes question and cry. “My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth,” the trumpets respond. “He will not allow your foot to be moved; He who keeps you will not slumber,” the violins sing.

I am part of that orchestra. I will lift my eyes up even when the music ceases to be understood.

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