There is a tawny neighborhood cat that sleeps on our deck chairs. When I walk to the car, or come home, she looks up at me, hoping to get a deep rub under her chin. I usually oblige. It doesn't take long, and seems to please her. 

 

The electric keyboard that sits under the window looking out on that deck is always alert and ready for John to wake up the sounds trapped inside. I am not sure if the chords are capable of the same yearning as the cat, but they spring out of the speakers as if they are. 

 

John wrote a song that is more bluesy than his usual style. The title is Love Came Down and we will perform it in church this week. He has played it half a dozen times a day for the sheer joy of singing, as much as to practice the fingering. 

 

The words paint a contrast between the elements that have been particularly weighty of late, and the potential for change. 

 

 

Practicing is a welcome interruption to the hustle that squeezes into the gap between breakfast and sleep. John was leaning over his computer trying to hammer out an email, then went to the living room and plunked on the bench. I was wrestling with a quilt under the needle, and heard him begin, which beckoned me to come sit beside him.

 

The images of anger and heartbreak are too poignant to be hypothetical. In the larger world, my local community, and the dynamics of our own home we all strain under the burden.  

 

Yesterday I paused my own needs to go wash a friend's dishes. They were piled on the counters and in the sink. I sang while I rinsed. 

 

That evening John listened to me unload about things that were troubling me, and then wrapped his arms around me for a long hug. 

 

And in those moments, love came down.