Passing by mostly unnoticed, why is it that the sweet sounds of the day are so easy to miss? These nice noises blur into a happy backdrop of a day unfolding as it should.
The sounds of summer
The gurgle of coffee brewing in the morning; the chirping of a songbird’s melody from a hidden branch; the squeaking of the playground swing and the laughter and squeals of the child who just leapt off of it; the hissing of a sprinkler and the drop-dropping of water on wide, floppy hydrangea leaves; the heavy hum of a hard-working air conditioner on a hot, sticky day; the tick-tick-tick of a gas grill starting; the familiar voices of family and friends floating along a languid summer breeze; and the crinkling of chocolate bars being unwrapped by the crackling fire pit — these glorious sounds inform my soul that all is well.
So, why do they slip by in an instant, sometimes not even registering at all?
And why is it that those other sounds command my full, undivided attention and irritate me for long after they’re gone?
When driving, I’ll never not notice the thud of my car hitting a curb. I’ve hit the majority of curbs in Madison, and I still hear every one. As the kids wobble back and forth like bowling pins, I calculate the compounding damage done to my van’s screeching shocks and struts and wonder when the wheels are going to fall off. And then there’s the backseat snickers.
In the summer, I also never miss the zip of a mosquito whizzing past my ear on its way to dive into my flesh. I always notice the eerie buzzing of cicadas alerting me that there’s a scorching sunburn just outside my door. I hear every action item that my phone buzzes, thwaps, pings, and boings out to me with unrelenting regularity. My phone ironically has not received the notification that we’re on summer break.
At the grocery store, you’d better believe the sound of the bossy self-checkout automated voice haunts me long after I’ve left the premises. “Please scan item. Place item on belt. Remove item. Try again. No, not that way. You obviously need assistance. Let me get someone to help you.”
Or while on a family vacation, I may miss a turn but never the exasperated voice of the cousin of the self-checkout lady: My long-suffering GPS. “Take this next exit. Here. Now. You missed it. Turn around. Turn around. Turn around. Rerouting. You’re so lost, there is no route back to your destination except for this footpath through the mountains.”
The shattering of a plate breaking. The chirping of a smoke detector with a waning battery. The ding of an empty gas tank when there’s no time to fill up. The catastrophic clanging of a fork in the garbage disposal. Hold music. It all . . . hangs on.
And yet, even as I’m hunched over from the cacophonies — both self-inflicted and not — I don’t notice the toll they take until I hear a bit of Heaven at church in comparison.
God is our focus
The gonging bells welcome and hurry me inside. The organ music swells, doing the heavy lifting of getting my soul looking heavenward. The clanging of the thurible against its chains by the server, the intonation of the lector, and the vocals of the cantor remind me that we’re all there to offer our best to the Lord. The four-year-old behind me singing with enthusiasm and getting the Mass responses mostly right warms my soul. The proclamation of the gospel in all its wisdom and providence fortifies my heart. Father’s familiar voice delivering gentle but sure guidance in the homily reminds me that God seeks to shepherd me home to Him. The robust chimes grab my attention to signal the Consecration. And best of all: The quiet stillness of the Eucharist floods me with healing love and peace.
By the time Father announces that there are donuts in the connector, these divine noises have left me largely uncoiled, sitting up straighter in the pew, after having transported me to the most beautiful-sounding place of all.
I’m reminded that one day, God willing, we’ll be graced with the gift of hearing “I love you” for eternity from God Himself, safe at home in His arms, in the heavenly city gleaming with streets of gold . . . and without a curb in sight.
Meg Matenaer is a wife, mom, social media writer, and author residing in the Diocese of Madison.