Prologue
From David, the Warrior-Poet: c. 1020-970 B.C.—Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings has thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger. Psalm 8:2
From me, a mother who once bore arms: Christmastime-1991
My eight-year old son rushed through the front door of our military quarters. His face and dark head were bathed in sweat. He had that little man smell. “Hey, Mom, I’m trying out for a solo … where’s the recorder? I think I have a good shot….”
He shuffled drawers and banged closet doors, his tennis shoes squeaked against the ceramic tile; our concrete home’s walls echoed, caused the search to sound all the louder, but he still couldn’t find a blank cassette of his own, borrowed an old one from me, one he didn’t think I needed anymore, something he recorded over and never returned. Soon he was singing, stopping, listening, singing. Over and over.
What I wouldn’t give to have that cassette now.
Successive days proved just as disciplined. His voice was loud, unabashed and a little off key, still, a sweet voice he had then, and I really can’t wait to hear it again. He recorded, listened, improvised, adapted; he deliberated a step further and prayed for God to give him that solo.
Answers are no sometimes.
Aaron cried as I tucked him into bed on the bad news night. He questioned me and wondered why God had not answered his prayer. I don’t know how sound my response was, but I’m certain I questioned too.
Sunday arrived, the young actors, actresses and singers filed down the aisle on either side of the chapel, a few chubby faces glanced and grinned back at the full house until at last, a patient and ordered teacher had each star placed.
I sat somewhere in the middle, on the left side of the chapel, listened to the Chaplain’s prayers as I read from a printed Armed Forces bulletin, stared a little too long at an unfamiliar name listed next to soloist.
The Great Potentate began. Proud parents pressed hard into their pews, strained to make eye contact with but that one pair of eyes that resembled their own. Soon, recited short lines began in youthful soprano, first this child and that, one passed a mic, another muffled a cough.
At last, it was time for the solo. The audience waited, then shuffled a few long seconds more. The vocalists must have sensed a concerted effort from those who watched and listened as the soloist stood scared, frozen, but then a slow and steady pitch grew from the front, from another child’s mouth. This soloist gained ground. A voluble voice, one I knew as well as I recognized my own. It was Aaron’s.
His preparation time had not been in vain.
Reminiscent of a spring day to come.
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