The Whistle

 

It was the last Saturday of October.

I had gone to bed early the night before, which probably explains why I found myself awake again around two in the morning.

I peeked into my oldest son's room. He was still at his computer, busy with whatever keeps young men awake long past midnight.

The younger two were asleep. For a Friday night, they must not have stayed up too late. For more than two weeks now, they have been passing the same cough and runny noses back and forth, missing school more often than attending. Strangely enough, they seem to enjoy being sick a little. I'm thankful for that. They are growing up to be wonderfully ordinary children.

My mother-in-law had recently undergone a minor hand surgery, so I had given her my room while she recovered. The light beneath the door told me she was awake, though she seemed to be resting. She has endured more surgeries than I can count over the years, yet she continues to recover well and enjoy good health. Sometimes it feels as though our Father in Heaven has chosen to show her a particular kindness after a lifetime of hardship. Every now and then, I find myself envying the grace woven into her old age.

My wife and daughter were asleep together, wrapped around each other like twins still sharing the same womb. Their mouths hung slightly open in the deep surrender of sleep. Not wanting to disturb the peace that darkness had laid across the house, I tiptoed downstairs.

It had been a long week at work. Being Friday night, I had hoped to sleep deeply for once, to sink into rest and stay there. But years ago I accepted that such luxury was not meant for me.

I picked up a book called The Origin of Ideas.

Maybe it would put me to sleep.

Instead, the rain did.

The sound woke me sometime later.

Rain is a rare visitor here in Arizona, but this week it had appeared several times. Since early evening the weather alerts on my phone had been sounding their alarms as though the skies were about to fall. Having lived through Houston weather, I dismissed them with the confidence of someone who had seen worse.

Then sunlight slipped through the blinds.

I hurried to the window.

There it was.

A rainbow.

The one I had been hoping for.

As though summoned by an ancient promise, I hurried outside in my slippers and chased it long enough to capture a few photos and videos before it faded.

Back to the book.

Reading.

Drowsing.

Reading again.

Then I heard soft footsteps.

My mother-in-law.

Conversations with her are always a gift. She is nearing eighty now, and somehow her stories always leave a lingering warmth behind. I made her a sweet cup of coffee. We shared a bagel and a five-dollar salad from the grocery store. We sat together and talked about nothing in particular.

And somehow, about everything.

A little later, another set of footsteps arrived.

Much lighter ones.

Very familiar ones.

My daughter.

The moment our eyes met, words began pouring out of her. Beside her, my wife was busy creating something, as she always seems to be, though I couldn't quite tell what it was.

My attention was on our princess.

For days, maybe weeks, she had stubbornly practiced whistling.

Perhaps the rainbow had helped.

Or perhaps it was simply time.

Suddenly, there it was.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Among all the airy sounds and failed attempts, a single clear note cut through the room.

A whistle.

She had done it.

I celebrated as though we had won a championship.

My daughter and I carried on with enough excitement to wake the neighborhood.

No one else heard it.

Only her father.

Only the one who had been close enough to listen.

My mother-in-law asked her to do it again.

My daughter turned shy.

Embarrassingly shy.

She most certainly inherited that from her parents.

To explain why I kept calling myself a "witness," I somehow ended up telling her about the disciples who became witnesses to the risen Jesus.

I think she understood.

At least a little.

Then she looked at me and said,

"Dad, when my brothers come downstairs, make sure you tell them I whistled."

Soon the youngest son appeared, his footsteps wandering across the floor as though they were still half asleep.

He became a witness.

Then came my middle son, his footsteps heavier now, the sound of a boy who has somehow grown larger than his father.

Before I could make my announcement, the youngest had already shared the news.

The oldest remained unseen until much later.

In fact, as I write these words, he has only just come downstairs.

"Guess what!" I said.

"What?"

"She whistled!"

"I'm gonna kill you."

Apparently my excitement had convinced him that something terrible had happened.

Then he turned to his sister, smiled, and said,

"I love you."

And so the whistle made its rounds.

From one person to another.

From one room to another.

From one heart to another.

And every day since then, I have heard it again.

And again.

And again.

Sometimes I wonder if the wind of the Holy Spirit sounds a little like a whistle.

Life remains difficult.

Work is still tiring.

Children still get sick.

The days still rush by.

Yet somewhere in the middle of it all,

the whistle keeps going.

Wheeeee...

Then again.

Wheeeee...

And again.

Wheeeee...