Little story I wrote -- hope you enjoy!
Requisite
The hum of violins resonated throughout the college auditorium, like rapidly quivering wings of a thousand thousand butterflies, as the musicians tuned their instruments. Music sheets fluttered open on their racks under quick hands. Chairs scraped the floor in a last-minute adjustment. The conductor rolled his glistening baton between his gloved fingers, his eyes darting over his players. Almost time for the audience to arrive and the music to begin.
The violin soloists sat together in a nervous group, whispering. Miranda smoothed her black skirt down with fingers that pulsed nervously. Almost time. The audience would be here any moment and it would be time to show the whole college what she could do with a violin. Her parents would be there -- she had welcomed them to the college campus for a quick catch-up conversation only that morning. She could show them what the first year of college had done for her, the little girl with the violin. Her chance to make them proud of her, Violin 4. Smiling to herself, she ran a careful finger over the line of her upswept blonde hair.
“Is someone coming to see you play?” Alyssa, Violin 3, leaned over, smiling.
Miranda nodded. “Uh-huh. My parents. It’s my first really big performance.”
“I’m glad,” Alyssa said, her blue eyes overflowing with cheer.
“How about you?” Miranda asked quickly. Alyssa was a nice girl and certainly she was a brilliant violinist; no one who’d attended the concert practices could deny that. “Are your parents here?”
She shook her head, sparkly earrings shaking and shimmering. “No, it’s too far. They’re five states away. But they’re watching it live, and I’m still playing for them…” She paused, a glow lighting her eyes.
“Anyone else?” Miranda asked keenly, suspecting a romance.
Alyssa smiled vaguely. Leaning in closer, she said, “Miranda, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
Miranda grinned. “Besides sleeping in as late as I can? I don’t really don’t have any official plans.”
Ashley nodded. Then she said swiftly, as if she’d been meaning to speak and had been holding back, “Well, how about coming over to my church tomorrow?”
Miranda frowned. She knew Alyssa went to church every Sunday, but it was just part of what Alyssa did. Why would Alyssa invite her? “Um, I don’t know. I don’t go to church.”
Alyssa nodded. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
People were starting to enter the auditorium now, filing into the seats. Miranda didn’t pay attention to it, for once. “Why do you want me to come?” she asked bluntly.
“Oh, it’s just that I -- and the church -- would love to have you. I think you’d enjoy it. And perhaps it might be an interesting experience even if you never come again.” Alyssa smiled again, casual and relaxed, as if it wasn’t a big deal, just a simple offer.
Murmurs echoed in the auditorium as more people trickled in through the wide-flung doors. The rows of seats were beginning to fill.
Miranda hesitated. “Is there any music?”
“I should have mentioned that,” said Alyssa. “Yes, we sing, and there’s always a pianist, and sometimes I play my violin. I did that for our Thanksgiving service. Anyway, will you come?”
The hum of musicians tuning their instruments swelled more loudly in Miranda’s ears.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I need a minute to consider.”
Alyssa nodded understandingly, and reached for her violin, lifting the honey-brown instrument from her music stand. She ran her fingers over the strings lightly.
Miranda lifted her own violin, ready to play. But Alyssa’s invitation hovered at the back of her mind, distracting her. Finally, she turned to Alyssa.
“I don’t quite understand. Why do you go to church?”
“It’s where I worship my Creator,” Alyssa said simply.
“But why believe in a creator at all?” Miranda pressed.
Alyssa paused a moment, glancing upward as if in concentration. “There’s several reasons,” she said, her voice quiet in the slow, throbbing thrum of the music. “Let me put it this way. How can I not?”
“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, confused.
“Sometimes the Christian faith is discredited because it is not considered logical,” said Alyssa. “And in some ways it certainly defies all earthly logic. But really, it makes sense to worship our God.”
“In what way?”
The music of tuning instruments died to a steady-paced hum, then slowed to a stop.
Alyssa smiled and said in a whisper. “Look around us, Miranda. We’re about to start our concert. How well would we perform without Mr. Sterns conducting us?” She jerked her head in the direction of the conductor, who was flexing his fingers in preparation for the music.
“Not well,” said Miranda, still perplexed, watching as Alyssa lifted her violin to her shoulder.
“And what about the music itself? We’re about to perform one of Vivaldi’s concertos. How far would we get without Vivaldi’s having written the music?”
“Not far,” admitted Miranda, wondering if she was starting to see where Alyssa was going with this. She raised her violin and her bow.
"Do you see?" asked Alyssa. "An orchestra needs a conductor. A concerto requires a composer. A book necessitates an author.” She turned and looked directly into Miranda’s eyes over the sleek line of her violin. “And a world must have a Creator.”
Mr. Sterns poised his baton. Emily, Violin 1, began to play, her instrument singing out its high sweet notes. Michael, Violin 2, drew in beside her with low lilting harmony.
Miranda prepared to join in with Emily, her mind whirling with Alyssa’s words. Then it was her turn and the music swept her in. But she was not thinking of her performance, nor of her mother and father watching from the audience.
An orchestra needs a conductor. A concerto requires a composer. A book necessitates an author. A world must have a Creator.
As Emily's solo soared again, Miranda leaned over and whispered to Alyssa, “I’ll come.”
Alyssa’s eyes glowed with sudden joy. “I’ll meet you outside the dorms tomorrow at eight-thirty,” she whispered back.
"See you then,” Miranda replied, and swung herself back into the rhythm of the glorious music, smiling up at the spotlights.
Tomorrow at eight-thirty.
