The blare of a trumpet can cut through most any noise, but when a boy all of 12 years or so walks into his suburban Chicago yard and bleats out a warble of Taps, it slices through the din of Friday afternoon traffic, lawn mowers and planes, reorienting the air with commanding clarity.
Undulating across acres of neighborhood grass the notes made clear the bugler probably abandoned the horn after the first few months of band. The song wavered between octaves and he left out an entire portion of the familiar bugle call, but after playing it three times, there was no mistaking that this boy had a message to transmit.
I stopped pulling the weeds and listened to him play the song over and over, each time pushing his notes higher above the forsythia hedge and deeper into the garden, weighing upon the abundance of life that surrounded me.
My heart knows him. I was reassured that there are kindred spirits out there beyond the confines of my safe greenery, brave little souls who feel so much they must grab a trumpet, run out into the sun and explode their hot breath into it. I felt him blasting his grief, his heart and his confusion with an explosion of fury. I felt his anguish for the world, our country, its troubles, basic human misery and for the people who have chosen to depart so desperately.
This world does not make sense. Things are not well. God does not feel nigh.
Find a trumpet and blow.