By J.R. Miller
There is more to be said about making life a song, than was said in the last chapter. Each one of us should live so as to make music in this world. This we can do by simple, cheerful obedience. He who does God's will faithfully each day, makes his life a song. The music is peace. It has no jarring dissonances, nor any anxieties, frets, or worries, no rebelings or doubts.
But we must make music also in relations--as well as singularly. We do not live alone; we live in companionships, in families, in friendship's circles, in churches, in communities. The soloist can sing at sweet will, without restriction or limitation or fear of clashing or jarring. But it is quite another thing for several people to sing together, in choir or chorus, and there voices all to blend in harmony. It is necessary in this latter case--that they should have the same key and that they should sing carefully and unselfishly, each watching the others and controlling, repressing, or restraining their own voice for the sake of the effect of the whole, full music. If one sings falsely, out of tune or out of time--he mars the harmony of the chorus. If one sings without regard to the other voices, only for the display of their own--their part is out of proportion, and the effect is unhappy. It requires the spirit of self-repression, self-effacement, to be one of a company of singers. One must give up all desire for personal prominence or conspicuousness, and be content to lose one's self in the song which all together sing.
Yet it is necessary not only that we make sweet music in our individual lives--but also that in choirs or choruses in which we may find ourselves only individual members, we do our part in making pleasing harmony. Some people are very good alone, where no other life comes in contact with theirs, where they are entirely their own master and have to think only of themselves, and where they can have their own way--who yet make most wretched business of living when they come into relationships with others. Then they are selfish, tyrannical, absorbing, despotic, and willful. They will not endure suggestion, request, and authority.
They will not submit to any inconvenience, any sacrifice. They are good in many respects. They live morally. They do well in the world. They are even generous in certain ways, and may be refined and cultured. But they cannot live cordially with people; at least other people cannot live cordially with them. They have not the remotest conception of life with self-denials and sacrifices in it, in which others have to be considered.
But we are not godly Christians until we have learned to live Christianly in relations. For example, in the family. A true marriage means the ultimate bringing of two lives into such perfect one-ness that there shall not be a discord in the blended music. "They two shall be one." To attain this--each must give up much. Neither can move on independently of the other, without thought or without self-forgetfulness. The relation is not that of master and slave--but that of love. There must be on part of both, self-repression, and self-renunciation. The aim of each must be--what always is true love's aim--to serve the other, the deeper love to serve the more deeply. Only in perfect love, which is utterly self-forgetful, can there be perfect blending of lives.
Then as a family grows up in the home, it is harder still to keep the music without dissonance, with the varying individual tastes and preferences, which are disposed to assert themselves often in aggressive ways. Only keeping love always the ruling motive, can do it. But there are families that never do learn to live together lovingly. Oftentimes the harmony is spoiled by one member of the household who will not yield to the sway of unselfishness, nor repress and deny self for the good of all. On the other hand, in homes that do grow into the ripeness of love, there is oftentimes one life that by its calm, true, serene peace, which nothing can disturb, at length draws all the discordant elements of the household life into accord with itself and so perfects the music of the home. It takes but little things to mar the music. And it takes but the little things of love, the amenities, the thoughtfulness, the words in season, the gentle acts of common kindness, to make home's music almost divinely sweet.
In all relations, the same lesson has somehow to be learned. We must learn to live with other people--and live with them in harmony of love. And people are not all good and gentle. Not many of them are so self-forgetful that they are willing to do all the yielding, all the giving up or sacrificing. We must each do our share of this office of love, if we are to live happily in relations. Some people's idea of giving up--is that the other person must do it all. That is what some despotic husbands think that their wives ought to do.
In all associated life, there is the same tendency to let the yielding be done by the other person. "We get along splendidly," a man says, referring to his business, or to some associated work. "So and so is very easy to live with. He is gentle and yielding and always gives up. So I have things my own way, and we get on together beautifully."
Certainly--but that is not the Christian way of getting on together. The self-repression and self-renunciation should be mutual. "In honor preferring one another," is Paul's rule. When each person in any association of lives does this, seeking the honor and promotion of the other, not thinking of himself--the music is full of harmony. The essential thing in love is not receiving--but giving; not the desire to be helped or humored--but to help or humor.
Then, not in relations only--but in circumstances also, must we learn to make our life a song. This is not hard when all things are to our mind, when we are in prosperity, when friends surround us, when the family circle is unbroken, when health is good, when there are no crosses, and when no self-denials are required. But it is not so easy when the flow of pleasant circumstances is rudely broken, when sorrow comes, when bitter disappointment dashes away the hopes of years. Yet Christian faith can keep the music unbroken even through such experiences as these. The music is changed, growing tenderer. Its tones become deeper, tremulous sometimes, as the tear's creep into them. But it is really enriched and made more sweet and beautiful.
Our lives are harps of God--but many of them do not give out their sweetest music in calm of quiet, prosperous days. It is only in the heavy storms of trial, in adversity, in sore pain or loss--that the richest, noblest music comes from our souls. Most of us have to learn our best and truest lessons in the stress of trial. In few homes is the music of the glad, tearless, days--as deep and rich as it is after grief has come. The household song is sweetest when the voices choke with sobbing.
We should seek to have our life so trained, and so disciplined, that no sudden change of circumstances shall ever stop its music; that if we are carried suddenly out of our summer of joy today--into winter of grief tomorrow, the song shall still go on unbroken, the song of faith, love, peace. Paul had learned this when he could say, "I have learned, in whatever state I am, therein to be content. I know how to be abased, and I know also how to abound." Circumstances did not affect him, for the source of his peace and joy was in Christ.
How can we get these lessons? Every human life in its un-renewed state is like a harp, with broken strings, tarnished by sin. It is capable of giving forth music marvelously rich and beautiful. But first it must be restored, its strings reset; and the only one who can do this is the Maker of the harp, the Lord Jesus Christ. Only he can bring the jangled chords of our life into tune, so that when played upon, they shall give forth rich music. We must, therefore, surrender our hearts to him--that he may repair and restore them. Then we shall be able to make music, not in our individual lives only--but in whatever relations our lot may cast, and in whatever circumstances it may fall to us to dwell.
