Not Long Ago
An angel, a very young angel named Harold, looked down at the earth and saw much poverty and sickness. He wondered why so few people tried to do some kind of good, why so few were helped. No matter what was done, the poor people seemed to multiply to even greater numbers. Harold watched and he wept at the sight.
Now Harold’s job in Heaven was to sing in a choir, it was an all boys’ choir and they were busy singing all the time. When the choirmaster gathered his boys together for practice and started the first song, something was wrong. He listened, he cocked his head, he turned this way and that. The sound he knew was not right, but what was missing? He looked down, at the middle of the choir, it was Harold,
He wasn’t singing.
Harold, the choirmaster boomed, we need your voice, our choir is not complete without you.
Harold answered meekly, I can’t, I can’t, On Earth is sadness and hunger, what good is it to sing when so many children are so poor?
The choirmaster knew this to be true, but he knew this could not be changed, not from Heaven, not by him or any other angel.
Harold, he said, softly, I know how you feel, but you and I must do as we are asked, and that is to sing, our choir is important and your voice makes it whole. You must sing.
Harold looked up at the choirmaster, a tear on his cheek, I can’t, a lump in my throat hurts, I can not make a sound if I try to sing. I don’t understand. I just don’t understand why so many have so little and our choir gains new voices everyday.
The choirmaster looked at all the faces and knew the look in so many eyes. How could he tell them something he himself didn’t know? Why so many sick, why so many hungry, why so many cold and alone in a world with so much to share?
The choirmaster looked around again, at all the young boys who looked back at him. Why, the faces seemed to ask why. As Harold looked at the choirmaster, he saw a change, as if someone else was talking, a voice that was like a light. It rose above them all. It said, not loudly or harshly, go Harold, go and see what you ask, for no one can say why.
‘Hark, Harold, the angel sings’, written by my grandfather, edited and published by yours truly.