This weekend I became the mother of two teenage boys instead of two preschool boys. No, Max and Will did not suddenly have a burst of testosterone, but I was the surrogate mama to my little brother and his friend as they went to audition at Wheaton College and DePaul University.
As we entered the school of music, we were met by a cacophony of sound: Mozart flying through the air, the distant sound of tympani pounding, the names of hopefuls signing in, the loud silence of potentials waiting and parents praying. These students represent years of hard work, hours of practice, small fortunes and cultivated dreams. And all of this came to the crossroads of an audition to see if they have done enough, practiced enough, prepared enough, became enough. The spread of doughnuts seemed to mock, for who could eat?
Then as auditions were taking place, I went to an information session and learned that if my boys are still wanted after two rounds of cuts, they will only be able to attend this university if they pay $50,000 a year.
In the midst of all this I couldn’t help but be thankful for how much different it is coming to God. With him you never come to a crossroad of performance where you have to demonstrate that you have mastered and polished a list of requirements to make it through the first cut. It was when Christ hung and bled and died on the cross and then crescendoed into resurrected life three days later that all requirements were fulfilled and mastered. This allows us to bring the broken, imperfect and dissonant notes of our life to the master composer who then weaves them into the symphony of Jesus and gently brings them to resolution, or in a different word: home. And all God hears is a perfect masterpiece of love.
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