Love's Volume

At night, I fall asleep to the sound of metal cylinders rolling across the metal bed of the printing press; I dream in pantone colors. For two months, I've spent the bulk of my daily hours surrounded by this music of the print shop, the shuffle of feet sliding across the concrete floor as tired arms turn the crank over carefully carved blocks and handset type.

Crank, roll, whirrrrr, clank, click, click.

I've been introduced to new sounds and songs, added them to my library, developed a hunger for the cacophony.

When I return home, I hope to find much as I left it -- the work, friends and home I parted from with some hesitancy. But it's likely to be just as I feared. Life has undoubtedly changed without me in it.

But, time has changed me, too. I've been quieted; I've been slowed. I've been debased from pride I didn't know I had. My sins and shortcomings have been magnified under bright studio lights.

And while, I haven't digested all of my lessons, I have slowed my pace to lend ear to His sometimes-soft voice. He's here. God, is He ever here on this mountaintop, amidst the canvas of some of His best work.

He's here among the sinners who can't see the forest for the trees. He's here among the artists who fail to recognize the most creative work that is our habitat, that is ourselves. He's here whispering, He's here shouting. His voice is the sound of fog settling on mountaintops. His voice is like the sound of rushing waters.

I'll make a soundtrack of my time here. I'll burn a set of songs into my memory. And along with the metal scrapping and the obscene amounts of Hall & Oats, will be the soundless voices crying out for community and a God who speaks both soft and loud.