I Will Sing

A Reflection on the Psalm for December 20th, 2020:
Fourth Sunday of Advent

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Psalm 89

R. Forever I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord.

I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord, forever; with my mouth I will proclaim your faithfulness to all generations. I declare that your steadfast love is established forever; your faithfulness is as firm as the heavens. 

R. Forever I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord.

You said, “I have made a covenant with my chosen one, I have sworn to my servant David: I will establish your descendants forever, and build your throne for all generations.” 

R. Forever I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord.

He shall cry to me, “You are my Father, my God, and the Rock of my salvation!” Forever I will keep my steadfast love for him, and my covenant with him will stand firm. 

R. Forever I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord.

Pause. Pray.

And then read more...

If I were to pick up a ball of string as an infant,  and carry it along throughout my life, unravelling with it the story of God throughout, I would find music notes dancing along the string consistently from birth to the present day.


At birth, a sudden cry of shock and awe at the light beaming at me, becomes the song of love from my mother as she soothes my bewildered soul. As a young child skipping off to school in my music day dress, I would sing the songs I wrote myself. They lacked melody, and couldn’t catch a rhyme, but they were the songs of my heart, and love penetrated the theme of each one.


A little older and in the surly waves of adolescence, my songs were often laments—drenched in the unfairness of it all, and with a general undertone of desperation. As the ball of string continues to unfurl, I find life becoming darker. Fumbling through the darkness, stretching my arms and spreading my hands to feel my way through, I am singing (out of tune) of a love lost and forsaken.


Many years pass in this darkness. Many times I stumble over a dissonant chord, and fall face first into a repeat sign. The Lord, steadfast and taut as a line with a fish on hook, continues along beside me, holding the notes however daunting they may sound.


A faint cry breaks through the deafening cacophony of sound, and a light—from within two bright blue eyes—searches for the breast of her mother. I sing to her a song passed down through generations—I didn’t realize I knew the words. The songs become more hopeful now as my purpose is becoming clearer. My string intertwines with hers, creating a harmony sung between these two connected hearts.


Hastily singing and pacing with the inconsolable child, it’s 4am, and the song drifts ever so gently from my increasingly unconscious voice. I haven’t heard it in months.





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Presentable and holding anticipation, we walk to the church. My daughter dipped in water and oil revives my heart as we sing, “Alleluia!” The songs are sung more consistently now in the recognition of Who the songs are about—the recognition of Who the songs are from.


Now at our present day, the world waits in quiet unrest. Isolation is everywhere, illness is everywhere, and song is everywhere. As I light the fourth candle after long weeks of wondering, “What will Christmas be?”, a quiet song rises up from within.


Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
And with fear and trembling stand;
Ponder nothing earthly-minded,
For with blessing in his hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.

("Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence", by Ralph Vaughan Williams)


Because He decendeth, I will sing. Because He abides with me even when my song is out of tune, I will sing. Because He is the Love in the beginning and the end, I will sing. Because He is the creator of all that is good, I will sing. Because life means nothing without Him, I will sing.




Lori MacDonald

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