What was it like the first time he heard music?
As he leaves the scene, heart beating out of his chest, every bird and rustling tree stops him in his tracks.
Each sound suprising him with wonder.
Each sound a miracle.
And who did he see first?
I hope it was his mama.
I hope he burst into her kitchen and fought the lump in his throat as he spoke (clear as day).
I hope she dropped a bowl straight onto the stone floor and saw that little-boy-turned-young-man’s face hear the words, “I love you” for the first time.
I hope they talked for hours.
And what about the music? Did it bring him to his knees the first time he heard the hymns?
Did he sing along once he learned the words?
His voice more striking than all the others, and maybe even the angels, after being touched by the hand of God?
And what else opened up to him once he was commanded Ephphatha? Friendship, I’m sure. A newfound love for life. Compassion for those who suffered, for he had suffered much.
But surely it all paled to encountering the One who stuck his fingers and whispered, “Be opened, my son.” His eyes. Struck with compassion, twinkling with hope. His power, nothing short of God’s.
“He has done all things well.
He makes the deaf hear and the mute speak.” the crowd said as they watched him walk by.
But he didn’t hear them in the throes of his joy (although he surely agreed).
“Be opened, my son.” Be opened to all the beauty you weren’t able to experience before it only foreshadows the beauty I am preparing for you. Be opened… And live anew.