Some of my favorite musicians sang in church. They are a men's acapella group, who have been together for thirty years. In their prime they sang at Christmas, the Fourth of July, concerts at Glencairn, and the Marriage Conference. Yet the pandemic rendered such luxuries obsolete. It was an unwelcome end to an era. 

 

But this week they brushed off their songbooks, and filled the service with their mellow voices. I used to feel as if I appreciated their musicianship. Now my gladness was redoubled, for having gone without. 

 

It seems that God uses that particular strategy to good effect. The joy I felt when our son came home after two weeks away was an uptick for the middling appreciation I held before he was gone. Apple pies, butternut squash soup, and pumpkin muffins are savory dishes made even sweeter for their absence since last fall. 

 

Benjamin was the first to play Christmas music in our home. I was moved to tears by how much the melodies touched me. I think I thanked him six times. 

 

The part I am slow to learn, is that for such exuberance over carols, or biscuits, or a smiling face they have to disappear. It seems that God uses our losses as a platform to give even more generously.