The grizzly 21 degrees meets you at the door with a cold, frosty mug of contempt as you leave behind the warmth and comfort of that humble abode from whence you call home, which lately has been barely a place where you briefly lay your head to rest. The rapidity with which the hours of a day pass become incredulous, the blur a mind-numbing flurry of people, relationships, and learning, all part of the greater ministry, their incomprehensible parts intertwined in the great dance of perpetuity through which we are traveling, God’s plan for our lives.
From the darkened corner of Bald Guy Coffee Roastery, my temporary place of repose, the strains of B.B. King waft above the aroma of roasted beans and brew. As with any song, notes like stepping stones of a garden path take one back to another time, another season of life. It was the early nineties; UF had just finished building the beautiful Center for Performing Arts and Art Gallery across the road from our campus housing, University Village South, on the outer realms of the University’s property. Eager to attend, when we heard that B.B. King would be performing, it was the perfect excuse to take a much-needed break from my Engineering studies and enjoy the other side of life’s journey, partaking in something besides the pursuit of academic success. Feeding the soul, nourishing that which is imperceptible, the non-qualitative negotiables which inspire are as important as those honorable goals and accolades, however misguided. One might argue that we should seek to feed solely upon God’s Word, which indeed in itself is of premiere importance, yet God would not want us to travel through this life without finding time to appreciate those things of his creation, even if they from gifts bestowed upon beings within His masterpiece. So, it could be said of music, art, and literature – Man’s participation in His splendidness.
Mankind’s replication of God is never as magnificent as the original piece of work. When hearing a recording of a song, a replication of a beautiful piece of artwork, or the summary of a literary masterpiece, although they may be inspiring and nearly perfect in their copy of the original, they never can compare to hearing, seeing, or reading the original. As the digitized melody mimics B.B.’s course, soulful voice, the memory of that night returns like a fog slowly crawling up the mountain, overflowing into the crevices until it submerges the air in which you stand.
