Trumpets
Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary: praise him in the firmament of his power. Praise him for his mighty acts: praise him according to his excellent greatness. Praise him with the sound of the trumpet: praise him with the psaltery and harp. Praise him with the timbrel and dance: praise him with stringed instruments and organs. Praise him upon the loud cymbals: praise him upon the high sounding cymbals. Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord.
Psalm 150
Design by Michael Podesta
Behind The Art - Trumpets:
We have all experienced the crisis of guests dropping in unexpected. Many years ago I lived on a farm in a remote section of northern California. At a little after 3:00 one mid-summer morning I awoke to the loud snapping of apple boughs in our densely overgrown driveway, the roar of a diesel engine, and headlights outside my bedroom window. The commotion, I soon discovered, was caused by the arrival of a band of singers and musicians in a large bus, stopping by on their way to San Francisco. There were the performers and their helpers and their families and their dogs. A friend of mine, a frequent houseguest, knew the manager of the band and had once casually suggested he drop in sometime. He had no recollection of inviting the whole troupe.
It was a warm night, so, after quantities of tea and toast and jam had been consumed (with impromptu meals for thirty-five, the menu is limited), I guided my guests to a spacious barn where a few days earlier we had - providentially - put in a truckload of fresh hay. Then I went back to bed and slept until about 8:00, when I was again awakened by unfamiliar sounds. It was music this time. I looked out the window and there, wandering through the unmown grass of the orchard, was a young man. Blond, tan, barefoot, shirtless, he was playing a trumpet. Notes in long, graceful, golden ribbons floated through the bright morning air. The sunlight glinted off the trumpet and off the drops of dew that still hung from the apple boughs. It was wonderful.
Sometimes a problem or burden will turn out that way, catching me off guard. Beneath an annoying or unattractive wrapping, I am surprised by a gift of singular beauty, joy, a hint of glory.
Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary: praise him in the firmament of his power. Praise him for his mighty acts: praise him according to his excellent greatness. Praise him with the sound of the trumpet: praise him with the psaltery and harp. Praise him with the timbrel and dance: praise him with stringed instruments and organs. Praise him upon the loud cymbals: praise him upon the high sounding cymbals. Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord.
Psalm 150
Design by Michael Podesta
Behind The Art - Trumpets:
We have all experienced the crisis of guests dropping in unexpected. Many years ago I lived on a farm in a remote section of northern California. At a little after 3:00 one mid-summer morning I awoke to the loud snapping of apple boughs in our densely overgrown driveway, the roar of a diesel engine, and headlights outside my bedroom window. The commotion, I soon discovered, was caused by the arrival of a band of singers and musicians in a large bus, stopping by on their way to San Francisco. There were the performers and their helpers and their families and their dogs. A friend of mine, a frequent houseguest, knew the manager of the band and had once casually suggested he drop in sometime. He had no recollection of inviting the whole troupe.
It was a warm night, so, after quantities of tea and toast and jam had been consumed (with impromptu meals for thirty-five, the menu is limited), I guided my guests to a spacious barn where a few days earlier we had - providentially - put in a truckload of fresh hay. Then I went back to bed and slept until about 8:00, when I was again awakened by unfamiliar sounds. It was music this time. I looked out the window and there, wandering through the unmown grass of the orchard, was a young man. Blond, tan, barefoot, shirtless, he was playing a trumpet. Notes in long, graceful, golden ribbons floated through the bright morning air. The sunlight glinted off the trumpet and off the drops of dew that still hung from the apple boughs. It was wonderful.
Sometimes a problem or burden will turn out that way, catching me off guard. Beneath an annoying or unattractive wrapping, I am surprised by a gift of singular beauty, joy, a hint of glory.
Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary: praise him in the firmament of his power. Praise him for his mighty acts: praise him according to his excellent greatness. Praise him with the sound of the trumpet: praise him with the psaltery and harp. Praise him with the timbrel and dance: praise him with stringed instruments and organs. Praise him upon the loud cymbals: praise him upon the high sounding cymbals. Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord.
Psalm 150
Design by Michael Podesta
Behind The Art - Trumpets:
We have all experienced the crisis of guests dropping in unexpected. Many years ago I lived on a farm in a remote section of northern California. At a little after 3:00 one mid-summer morning I awoke to the loud snapping of apple boughs in our densely overgrown driveway, the roar of a diesel engine, and headlights outside my bedroom window. The commotion, I soon discovered, was caused by the arrival of a band of singers and musicians in a large bus, stopping by on their way to San Francisco. There were the performers and their helpers and their families and their dogs. A friend of mine, a frequent houseguest, knew the manager of the band and had once casually suggested he drop in sometime. He had no recollection of inviting the whole troupe.
It was a warm night, so, after quantities of tea and toast and jam had been consumed (with impromptu meals for thirty-five, the menu is limited), I guided my guests to a spacious barn where a few days earlier we had - providentially - put in a truckload of fresh hay. Then I went back to bed and slept until about 8:00, when I was again awakened by unfamiliar sounds. It was music this time. I looked out the window and there, wandering through the unmown grass of the orchard, was a young man. Blond, tan, barefoot, shirtless, he was playing a trumpet. Notes in long, graceful, golden ribbons floated through the bright morning air. The sunlight glinted off the trumpet and off the drops of dew that still hung from the apple boughs. It was wonderful.
Sometimes a problem or burden will turn out that way, catching me off guard. Beneath an annoying or unattractive wrapping, I am surprised by a gift of singular beauty, joy, a hint of glory.