Middle C

I bet a lot of Middle C gets played in Heaven. The frequency it floats on is wrapped in Jesus juice. When I hear it, I hear “ahhhhh.” Something about the note is just calming—maybe even soothing—in a you-don’t-even-realize-it’s-happening kind of way.  From out of nowhere, without fanfare, it can make us feel like we are home.

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When beginners start to learn to play the piano, the first thing any teacher teaches them is how to locate Middle C.  It is the note in the center of the 88 piano keys-- the fulcrum that attaches the treble to the bass-- and it acts as a reference point for those learning to navigate the musical scales. Everybody who sits down to play a little ditty almost always puts their thumb or index finger first on Middle C.

It's a place you can take off from or return to. A place that never disappoints, or gets old, or rubs the skin in awkward ways. It’s safe and familiar, like homebase. And every time you hear it you remember what you know.

I keep a box in my home office full of Middle C’s.  In it are several things in my Granny’s handwriting—some scriptures, a recipe or two, some birthday notes and congratulations cards. It also has some photos of her and my Papa when they were young, as well as some of the two of them with my mom when she was growing up.  Some clippings that she kept inside her Bible live in there, too, along with a Dear Abby column that she thought was genius, and a few of her favorite quotes scratched on the back side of envelope flaps. While who and how my Granny was is never very far away, the box is like an anchor that tethers me to her when I can’t reach. I only need to see her jagged penmanship or read the yellowed snippets to feel her in the room and get my bearings. That box is my connector to what was and what will be.

Whenever a stream gurgles, or the sun rises, or a flower pokes its head out after a good eight months of living underground, I hear Middle C. God’s tuning fork is evident in our predictably unpredictable physical world where time and tempo serve as salient reminders that we are not the ones in charge. We don’t have to be clever or creative or counted on (what a relief and what a respite!) We can just enjoy.  When the sky goes from blackened navy to strips of purple punched with splats of orange and pink or when grape hyacinths suddenly blanket the bed they were not planted in, I feel taken care of. Watched over. Doted on and spoiled. God’s world makes every place a kind of familiar. Nature wraps us like a blanket in the accoutrements of home.

Baby giggles also feel like Middle C. They make the world go away. In their out of nowhere manner, they remind me of a place I can remember but can’t touch until I hear them. Unlike certain singers who after a while turn painful to the ear, baby giggles never grate. They don’t get old and they don’t grow boring. Like the tone of the key that ties the upper register to the lower, the more you hear, the more you want to hear it. The giggle of a baby, like the note in the center of the piano, never disappoints.

The center of things is a holy spot that gets a bad rap sometimes.  After all, the outer edges are where we experience greatest growth.  But the middle is what sustains us. The middle feeds our soul.  Gregory Boyle, in his book Tattos on the Heart, says “we all have an image of God that becomes the touchstone we return to…”  In other words, we all see Him in different ways and in different places and the image that makes him palpable helps tie us to true north. Those places anchor us to safety, hope and peace. They are the harbors  where we feel most at home.

My God shows up in my Japanese maples and in the Oklahoma sunsets that streak across the western sky.  I see Him in my Granny’s handwriting, my father’s drawings, and my mother’s servant heart. It’s as if I can reach out with my fingers and feel him when my granddaughter lets loose a giggle or when my son comes up when I’m not looking and hugs me from behind.

And I know that God is present when I hear Middle C.

P.S. Little Laughter