~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a boy who liked to sing.
The boy grew up in a Small Tribe near the Great River, surrounded by people he cared for dearly, and who cared for him. The people in the Small tribe were a joyful bunch. They taught the boy about the Chief of all Tribes, who was loving, just, and kind.
They taught him the truths and ways the Chief, and they told him the Chief’s Story. The boy learned who the Chief was, and that He wanted all people to be a part of His Story.
They also taught the boy how to sing. He learned that the Chief had created all people to sing. The Small Tribe even had its own Song that everyone sang, and they were always inviting others to sing with them.
It was a beautiful, inviting Song. In fact, it was so beautiful, so inviting, that nomads in the harsh, cold lands outside of the village were often drawn to safety by its sound.
The Small Tribe’s Song was a Song of freedom, a Song of restoration, a Song of hope.
It was a song that offered meaning and value to the life that is now, and the life that is later.
The meaning of the Small Tribe’s Song never changed, and it was always based on the Story of the Chief of all Tribes.
However, the sound of the Small Tribe's Song was always changing.
It was freely composed, full of improvisation.
As each new member joined the tribe, they added their own notes to the Song; their own pieces. Sometimes this meant that blue notes would happen, notes that were mistakes. But this was expected, and those who sang incorrect notes were encouraged and mentored so they would better and more freely add to the beauty of the Song.
Any tribe’s Song was important, because the Chief had created the tribes to sing their unique Song, and invite all the lost nomads and outcasts in the land to join in and become part of the Chief’s Story.
The boy loved his Small Tribe, he loved the Chief of all Tribes, he loved the Chief’s Story, and he loved the Small Tribe’s Song. The Song filled his life, and he was constantly sharing the Song with other people outside of the tribe, inviting them to sing along. He would have been happy to do so for the rest of his life.
But sadly, disaster hit his tribe. A bad storm made the river rise and overtake the tribe’s land. In the chaos of the storm, the Small Tribe split apart in search for dry land.
The storm winds drove the boy’s family South, until they happened upon an Old Tribe near the small, Fairweather Creek. They were unfamiliar with the Old Tribe and its customs, and it was larger than the Small Tribe they once knew and loved. From the cold, harsh fields outside of the village, they could not hear the Old Tribe’s Song. When they came through the gates, they noticed that few people were singing anything at all. But the Old Tribe believed in the ways of the Chief of all Tribes, and that was enough for the boy’s parents. The members of the Old Tribe were kind, but newcomers were not allowed in the inner streets of the village, so the boy’s family settled in a spot on the edge of the village near the Eastern gates.
The boy was quickly welcomed into the tribal community, and enjoyed his new friends. He especially liked the town storyteller. The storyteller was a caring man with a smile both contagious and wise. He was a clever man as well. The two bonded fast, and the storyteller taught the boy all he knew. The older man knew the boy was special, and so took him under his wing as a friend and apprentice.
Although the boy was growing accustomed to the Old Tribe, there was something that unsettled him. He had always liked to sing when he was with the Small Tribe, but now he was with the Old Tribe, they were singing a Song that was very different from the Song the boy knew.
The song of the Small Tribe was freeing. It was a good song, alive with joy.
But the song of the Old Tribe was not like the song of the boy’s youth.
It was not a Song of freedom. It was a Song of rules.
It was not lively, and it seemed hollow.
And worst of all for the boy, it was always exactly the same.
There were no new voices; there were no new verses.
There was no improvisation.
This confused the boy, so one day while visiting with his mentor, he asked the storyteller about the Old Tribe’s Song. Immediately, the light in the storyteller’s eyes dimmed, and he turned his head down and away. When he returned his gaze to the boy, it was wrinkled with a sadness that the boy had never seen before. After a moment of thought, the seasoned storyteller began.
“Don’t let these wrinkles fool you, for I once was a boy, too.
My family and I were nomads traveling in the harsh, cold fields. ‘Traveling’ is what we called it, but really, we were just wandering. No matter which road we followed, no matter which cloud we chased, no matter which storms we ran from, we never found a place to call home. Years later, some would tell us that we were looking for the Story we belonged to.
“Well one day, when we were trying to outrace a threatening storm, we heard a strange noise. My youngest sister heard it first, which isn’t a surprise – the Chief of all Tribes Himself believes that young ones have the best ear for a tribe’s Song because they have the biggest heart for the Chief’s Story, and my sister had the biggest heart I've ever known – so we followed the sound until we reached this village. The Old Tribe was so much bigger then that it is now. We arrived in time to hear them singing, and boy, could they sing! It was such a beautiful Song, exploding with joy and peace. It was a Song that you couldn’t help but want to join in. I don’t remember too much of it anymore, but I think the chorus went a little something like this… ”
As the storyteller sang, the boy’s heart stirred and swelled his chest, sending up a smile to his face and a laugh through his mouth. For it was a joyful Song indeed, and it reminded the boy of the Small Tribe’s Song that he so loved. He hated for the storyteller’s singing to end as the old man continued.
“My sister was the first of us to start singing, and I was the last. My voice cracked, and I hit a whole lot of wrong notes. Blue notes, the tribespeople called them. But they never stopped me from singing. That day, we put up our tent right next to the village square, and we never left.
“So you see, the Old Tribe's Song was good. And it was once full of life.
But soon, some became concerned. Because the Song was so full of life, and because anyone could be a part of it, the Song would sometimes have messy sections.
Some of the people were concerned that the blue notes might one day get out of hand, because a Song full of blue notes isn’t really a Song at all, nor does it sound beautiful or inviting. Blue notes were mistakes, after all. As more nomads were coming in and joining the Old Tribe’s Song, that also meant there would be more mistakes. The concerned tribal members believed that it was important to uphold and maintain the integrity and rules of the Song. They claimed it was our job to keep the Song perfect and good. So the tribal leaders decided there would be no more improvisation, since improvisation opens up the possibility for blue notes. And since blue notes are mistakes, it was also decided that they should no longer be allowed.
“So they set up rules to keep the Song clean and pristine. It was more important to play a perfect Song than to allow nomads to just join in, lest they sing a blue note and take away from the beauty of the Song. Over time, the rules and perfection of the Song became more important than the heart of the Song itself. Until the heart of the Song was gone.”
The man’s story enraged the boy. “What about the nomads? How do they sing now?”
The wizened man leaned forward, calming the boy with a hand on the shoulder. “Young storyteller, look around you. Look close at the empty houses and tents. There are no nomads here. Not anymore. The only people that join our tribe these days follow the same path as you. They come from other tribes that experience trouble. Our numbers were once great, but they are slowly dwindling. You see, our Song is controlled, and it is perfect, but it is no longer joyful and inviting. You yourself told me it wasn’t our Song that made your family decide to stay here, it was merely the fact that we believed in the Chief of all Tribes. It is a rare day when a nomad joins our tribe. We don’t seek them out because of the blue notes. When a nomad does stumble into our midst, they must first learn all the rules and all the words before they can sing. And then they must sing only the exact words and notes that our elders have decided upon.”
The boy didn’t understand. “So if you knew it was wrong back then, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you stop it? Why did you stop singing the good Song?”
“We tried, young one. My little sister was the most vocal about the changes. She was a sweet thing, but could be a feisty little wildcat, too. She made petitions, held meetings, and walked around town singing the good Song as loud as she could. After a time, the elders accused her of being a “broken voice,” only able to sing blue notes. They called a town meeting with her and decided it would be best for the tribe if she would just leave, so they sent her away from the Old Tribe as an outcast.”
“An outcast? Is that like a nomad?” The boy had heard of outcasts, but had never yet seen one.
“No, my friend. A nomad is someone who has never experienced a tribal song, someone who has never been a part of the Chief’s Story. An outcast is different. Outcasts were once part of a tribe, but were either kicked out by the tribe due to having “broken voices,” or they simply left out of their own choosing.
“So you just let her go? Alone?” That is something the boy could never see himself doing.
“It is my life’s biggest regret that I did not go with her. But I couldn’t, because I was afraid. I didn’t like the ‘perfect’ Song, but I could handle it. There were no mistakes or blue notes anymore, but at least it was safe. Now it is far too late for me to leave. It’s what I’m comfortable with, and it’s all I know. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to compose or improvise again. You get used to it after a time. And speaking of time, it’s late, my big-hearted friend. You’d better get going before your mother worries.”
That conversation left a mark on the boy, and over time the boy’s view of the Old Tribe changed. He loved his friends in the tribe, and he still visited the storyteller. But he did not like nor agree with the Old Tribe’s Song.
It was technically perfect in every way. It was calculated. It was refined.
But it wasn’t real.
It contained no one’s real words.
It was someone else’s song. Someone else’s words. Someone else’s melody.
It wasn’t full of joy and echoing love, but instead somber and empty, with a tinge of despair.
Instead of celebrating both the life that is now and the life that is later, it only spoke of the later, and made the now seem worthless.
It focused on shame and guilt instead of the love of the Chief of all Tribes.
It was not a Song of freedom.
It was a Song of rules.
It made the boy not want to sing loudly anymore.
And he definitely didn’t want to share it with any nomads.
Not that they were any nomads left out there.
"Not anymore."
Every time he heard the Old Tribe's Song, the boy sang more quietly,
Until eventually he stopped singing altogether.
He moved his lips. Pretended to smile.
But inside, he felt like the Old Tribe’s Song: hollow.
It was better to not sing.
However, unlike his friend the storyteller, the boy could not endure or fake the Song for long. It was not part of his nature. You see, the boy had read the Chief’s Story. And he knew that the Chief had created the Tribes to invite the nomads to join His story. This kind, well-meaning Old Tribe had forgotten the purpose of its Song. Although they once sang a song that was beautiful, messy, and inviting for everyone, they now sang a song that was empty, rigid, and brought only comfort for themselves.
When the boy became a young man, he decided he would rather face the cold, harsh lands as an outcast alone than pretend to sing a Song he could not agree with.
So the boy left, disgruntled.
For years, the young man who no longer loved to sing wandered the lands without a Song in his throat. He sometimes saw other tribes afar off. But like when his family found the Old Tribe, he never heard their Songs. He tried to remember the Song from his Small Tribe, but the years of neglect had stolen the Song away. As he wandered through the fields, he never noticed the day he forgot how to sing altogether.
One morning, when he was still sleeping, the young man dreamt of his days in the Small Tribe. In his dream, he was a child again, playing in the Great River with his tribal friends and the nomad children, when suddenly he heard a beautiful sound that woke him up. He sat up and opened his eyes, and noticed that the Great River was gone, his young friends were gone, but the beautiful sound was not.
The sound seemed familiar. He cupped his ears toward the noise and listened close. It was a song! A beautiful and inviting Song! He picked up his belongings and raced toward the sound, which lead him to a large city at the foot of a small mountain.
The Song became louder as he neared the city. When the he entered the city gates, the Song was almost too much to bear. It was lively, it was vibrant, and it filled the air so thickly, he swore he could feel it in his lungs. The whole city was singing it. He followed the sound to the town square, As he was listening, an elderly lady with a kind, weathered face and bright eyes who was crouching next to him nudged his arm and invited to join in the singing.
“But what if I make a mistake? What if I mess up?” He asked her. He really wanted to sing, but after years of not singing, he was afraid to ruin this New Tribe’s Song. It was so beautiful and free.
The lady laughed, “You mean blue notes? Oh, honey, we all make those sometime. We don’t want to try to make a song out of blue notes, but when people make them, we work together to help each other get better. Now go ahead and sing.”
So the young man who forgot how to sing joined in, and he sang wonderfully. It was like he had never stopped singing at all. He hit a couple of blue notes, but he did not stop. And the Song? He absolutely loved the Song. It reminded him of the Chief of all Tribes, and of the Chief’s Story, just like any good Song should do. When it was over, the old lady grasped his hand and offered him a smile both contagious and wise.
“You did great, young man. Welcome to the New Tribe. I can tell you’ve sung great Songs before. Where are you from?”
The young man said, “I was born in the Small Tribe that used to be by the Great River. Before today, our Song was the sweetest I’d ever heard. One day a storm caused the Great River to flood over our tribe. Then I lived awhile with the Old Tribe by Fairweather Creek in the South. But I didn’t believe in their Song, so I left and chose the life of an outcast.
The old lady tightened her grip on his hand “I too, was an outcast, young man. The Old Tribe you speak of was my home, but not anymore. My brother remains there, still telling his stories, no doubt.”
“The old storyteller is your brother?” the young man exclaimed. He had oft wondered if the storyteller’s story might have been just for entertainment. “He was my friend! He told me what happened to you. If you’re his little sister, then what he said must be true. He said the Old Tribe’s Song used to be beautiful and inviting, but it isn’t anymore.”
“My brother was right," she answered, then added with a smirk, "He never did make a good liar. Their Song was once just as good as the Song is here at the New Tribe. Then the Old Tribe tried to make the song perfect, and cut out anything or even anyone who might add a blue note. But here’s what they failed to realize: it’s not us who make the Song good. It’s the Chief! It’s really His Song, He just lets us sing it. We could never make it perfect and good, but He does. He lets us put our words in it, and write our own melodies so we can be part of His Song, just like we become a part of His Story. Even with our blue notes. Now run along, my friend, and put up your tent. This is your home now.”
So the young man set up his tent in a spot in the middle of the city near the town square. And there he stayed for many years, serving as the tribe’s storyteller. After a time, he sent letters to his family in the Old Tribe, and many of them joined him in the New Tribe by the foot of the small mountain.
One day, after the man had grown old, he was walking along the streets of the village when he noticed a tired-looking family standing near the city entrance. They crowded just inside the gates, staring wide-eyed at the sights and sounds around them. He looked at them with his bright eyes and approached them with a smile both contagious and wise as he asked them where they were from.
The father of the family greeted the old storyteller and introduced himself, “We were from the Old Tribe that used to be near the Fairweather Creek, far to the South.”
“Used to be?” asked the storyteller.
“Yes. Our tribe became very small over the past few years, so we moved closer to the creek. Then a big storm came and turned the creek into a raging river that overtook our village. We traveled far, and had it not been for my youngest child here, we might have missed this city. He heard your Song from a long way off. He even started singing along as we came closer. We’ve never heard a Song so beautiful and inviting!”
The storyteller laughed and looked at the smallest boy who was clinging to his father’s leg, “The young ones always have the best ear for the tribe’s Song. That must mean you have a big heart, little storyteller. You are one special boy.”
The shy boy beamed a smile from ear to ear while maintaining his grip, “I couldn’t help it! It’s a good song!”
“It is a very good song. I can’t wait for you to sing it with us. Your family is most welcome here. Come, let me show you around.”
