He it is who makes the clouds rise at the end of the earth, who makes lightnings for the rain and brings forth the wind from his storehouses. Psalm 135:7 (ESV)

I find myself hoping for windy days. I have two sets of wind chimes now – memorials to Maggie and my mom. I call each by its namesake and address them with a “good morning” or “hello” when they ring for attention. I can’t think of a better way to remember two women who learned to take the strongest storm and make something useful and beautiful. They shared more than eye color (green), birth month (May), and a biting sense of humor. They each had talent for music. “Maggie” sings in the key of C from a sheltered corner of the deck outside my office window, while “Nanny”, true to form, takes center stage on the front porch. The deeper, richer tones of her scale carry farther, so I hear her more often. But one sweet spot in the house allows me a rare treat: their sweet duet.

I have my own history with wind, and it doesn’t involve singing or dancing. Solomon writing in Ecclesiastes labels his relentless pursuit of knowledge “chasing the wind,”, or in some translations, “feeding on the wind.” For me, it takes the form of asking questions for which I’ve no legitimate claim to the answers. Solomon’s identification of the futility of his search is his regular refrain through the pages of what reads like a memoir of regret. Whichever the exact meaning, I, like Solomon, am left empty-handed and malnourished. But that doesn’t keep the questions from coming.

Maggie’s early death left me sitting in the audience wondering why the curtain dropped in the middle of a perfect production. Why, Lord? Why did You take her so young and too soon? And in a twist of irony, a mirror image was still staring at me. For nearly two years after Maggie’s death and ten years into the slow ebb of Alzheimer’s, there sat my mom holding onto what I struggled to call life. Why is she still here, and does she even remember You, Lord? As I’m prone to do, I rehashed this thought a thousand times. I buried it once when prompted by a reprimand straight from scripture. Jesus’ words to Peter spoke to me. If I want him to remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow Me! (John 21:22, NASB) But setbacks would breathe new life into my quest to understand.

I thought I had reached acceptance status, if there is such a place, in my grief for Maggie when I got the call last summer that mom had been admitted to the hospital, kidneys and heart failing. Grief, scratched to aching, fresh rawness, leaves no ground undisturbed in its pursuit of questions to keep it company at night and answers to give it sleep. I dug them all up again. Why had Mom’s life lingered too long while Maggie’s was barely starting to bloom? Why had one experienced a full life only to forget most of it, including the disciplines of her faith, while another…, well, you get the idea.

Mom’s stay in the hospital stretched into a ten-day miracle. Her mind became clearer than it had been in years. We laughed at her jokes, marveling anew how a keen sense of humor survives the erasure of most abilities. We welcomed nurses and techs returning to her room for one last goodbye at shift change. They couldn’t get enough of her sweet spirit, kindness, and gratitude. “She thanks us for everything we do. We just love her.” And she would tell each one she loved them. One evening as we sat alone, I could sense she was tired and in pain. As if looking past what she was around her, she said, “I’m ready to see My Master.” Those words were music to my soul. She went home on hospice and went Home in faith the following week.

God’s ways are mysterious. He takes the young and places them in a fiery furnace to refine and define faith for a world watching that brief and glorious moment. Then they exit stage left and remain with us only in the retelling. He leaves the aged to point us to Heaven as their vision for this world fades and sharpens for the next. As George Whitefield says, “We are immortal until our work on earth is done.” God alone will decide a life’s “use by” date. I compromise my own purpose and botch the ill-fitting job when I step into His place as judge, dismissing one life that He has yet to fully use and clinging to another that is already fulfilled in its chief end.

When the air is starved of motion, I revive those questions to fill the silence. The whys and why nots stretch and prod my faith toward acceptance. After wrestling, I return them to the dust. Someday, as faith becomes closer to sight, I know I’ll bury them for good. In the meantime, I keep hoping for windy days. For when a stiff breeze blows doubts aside and stirs dangling metal to life, it sends one joyful song flowing down from dueling wind chimes. And in singing their song of praise, they silence my questions and teach me the secret of teasing music from the wind.