Several summers ago, I worked as a House Mother for the Joffrey Ballet Company. On my walk to the Studio every morning escorting 12 to 14 year old girls, I would pass a garden enclosed by a 7 to 8 foot black iron fence. It was triangular in shape and filled with exotic plants that made seeing inside all but impossible. The area became a mysterious dwelling for me, wondering who owned it. There was a tree, a Japanese Maple, which grew in the center of the garden, and under the tree sat a man in a stadium chair, playing music. He didn’t sing. He didn’t collect money; for even if someone wanted to throw money, it would be lost in the thick jungle-type vines that grew on the fencing. No, he played for a different reason. And everything within me wanted to know why.
The music was sorrowful and thought provoking at times; sometimes, it was rejuvenating and spirit filling. The acoustic guitar resonated above the sound of the moving cars and the bustling of people. It flowed through the crowds, enveloping us, inviting us to stop and listen.
Several mornings I stood and glared through a peep hole in the vines, wondering who could be playing such beautiful music. His hair was brown with a slight curl, his skin light but darkening from the sun. He wore shorts and flip-flops and a safari type hat… but the music was mesmerizing.
One morning I sat on the pavement with my back to the fence, not wanting to leave but tired from standing. When 10:00am rolled around, he stopped in mid-song, disappearing into the building which served as a blockade to anyone wanting to enter the sacred dwelling.
Not far from where I was sitting, a lady began gathering her belongings, “Who is he?” I asked.
She paused only for a moment before walking over to where I was. “I have no idea. I’ve been coming here every morning to listen to him for the past two weeks. He plays every day. Even in the rain.”
“Even in the rain?” I asked. My curiosity peeked.
Maybe he played to God or a long lost lover. Maybe he was in therapy to overcome rages of anger. Maybe he was a famous musician hiding from the public. Maybe it was none of my business the reasoning behind what he did; maybe I was just supposed to enjoy it.
As I started my walk back to the apartment, I decided not to take the subway. I wanted to think about God and people. Why we do the things we do… I’m a believer that God took the time to create every life-form on this planet. Each pedal is counted and placed strategically for our enjoyment and every color of rose chosen to glorify Him. The Bible tells us that He calls the names of the stars in the sky and knows the number of hairs on our heads. The spider’s legs are shaped perfectly so that it can climb and weave its web. The songs of the birds vary because the combined singing must bring harmony to His ears. This world, intelligently designed, is a beautiful place made for us to enjoy by the hand of God.
The familiar quote entered my mind, “Stop and smell the roses.” It’s discouraging to think how many sunsets I’ve missed, new leaves budding on the trees, mountains gleaming in the distance, and light shimmering across a lake. The butterflies I’ve overlooked or the smiles from people I’ve ignored.
I never learned why he played his music or what the mysterious garden meant to him. I only know what it meant to me. And maybe there aren’t reasons behind the melodious sounds of music or why the Painted Lady butterfly’s wings are brilliantly orange or roses smell so deliciously sweet except for a God who wants His children to simply enjoy His artistry.
