Waking to lightning, thunder, and rain, I prayed, “Make more joyful noise, Lord,” knowing full well the psalmists were not exhorting God but His people, like me, to serve with gratitude.

Make Joyful Music

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth. Psalm 100:1 (NRSV)

Four years ago, I climbed the stairs to the choir loft to rehearse a duet with the first flutist and the church organist. In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, we were playing “Lord of the Dance” during first service offertory. I hadn’t performed in public for nearly forty years and was a little nervous.

The sanctuary hadn’t warmed up yet and neither had our flutes, creating tuning challenges. We did our best to match pitch with the organ then started at the top. Within the first few phrases, I made a mistake, articulating two notes instead of slurring them. I shrugged and kept going.

Later, I told the organist, “I used to beat myself up for making mistakes. It’s different now…”

She nodded and said, “I don’t worry about imperfection. I know I’m going to make at least one mistake every service. I just concentrate on making joyful noises.”

And that’s exactly what I do, at every rehearsal and every service.

Make Joyful Food

“Get your castanets and sombreros ready!” The 51ers are meeting for lunch this Thursday, and our hostess will have a taco bar ready. The rest of us will add our take on the Mexican-themed lunch with guacamole, pico de gallo, chicken tortilla soup, corn salads—my contribution, as you can see from collected ingredients—and dessert. 

Every time we meet, we make food for fellowship time together—lots of joyful noise, praise, laughter, and lore.

Make Joyful Merriment

Here’s a story from my family’s lore.

“What kind of car does your family drive?” my older sister’s second grade teacher asked, referring to make and model.

Maybe her question came from a social studies lesson, or something else. It was the 1950’s in rural-suburban Woodbridge, Connecticut outside New Haven. Each student in my sister Jane’s class at Center School stood and responded with pride.

“Chevrolet.” “Ford.” “Buick.” “Oldsmobile.”

Then it was Jane’s turn. I suppose she thought about the Diaper Wagon sitting outside the barn apartment where we lived while my father was a medical student and intern—that’s Mother in the picture at right. Or maybe the old retired Emergency Room car my father drove—that’s me, below left, with a puzzle—or the purple Studebaker, another relic Daddy managed to keep alive. We always had everything we needed and felt rich in so many ways, until moments like this.

Jane pulled her petite, redheaded-self up to her full height and declared, “In our family, cars are called transportation.”

We would retell that story and make joyful noises about the questionable make of our vehicles for years to come.

What do you make?

Linkup with Five Minute Friday:  https://fiveminutefriday.com/2024/07/18/fmf-writing-prompt-link-up-make/