The Rhythm of August

The Rhythm of August

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

My son August? He drums on everything.

The kitchen table, the arm of the couch, cardboard boxes, empty water bottles if it makes a sound, that boy’s tapping a beat on it. Sometimes, I swear, the house itself starts to hum with his rhythm. And let me tell you there are days when I just can’t take it. I’ll be in the middle of trying to think, or rest, or pray, and there he is rat-a-tat-tat going at it like he’s onstage at Madison Square Garden.

So I say it "August, buddy, please. Take that rhythm outside."

But here’s the wild thing. The deeper I look, the more I realize this isn’t just noise. It’s not just a kid burning energy. It’s sacred.

He’s not just drumming he’s speaking. It’s like he’s carrying on a conversation with something I can’t quite hear. Like heaven whispered a beat into his bones before he ever took his first breath, and now his hands are just trying to keep up.

I watch him, and I feel something shift in me.

There’s a rhythm to life, you know? And August he feels it. While most folks are too distracted, too stressed, too grown-up to catch the tempo, August just lives in it. Moves with it. Taps into it like he’s plugged straight into the Source.

It reminds me of the first sound we all ever knew the steady thump of a heartbeat inside our mother’s womb. That ancient, reassuring rhythm that tells us, “You’re safe. You’re here. You matter.” And maybe, just maybe, August never stopped listening to that sound. Maybe his drumming is his way of keeping it alive.

There are days when it wears on me sure. Days when I just need a little quiet and he’s over there turning the countertop into a full drumline. But even then, even in the middle of the noise, I know this kid is built for something. This rhythm of his? It’s divine.

Sometimes I think the Creator gives us little clues whispers of purpose hidden in plain sight. And August’s gift? It shows up in the beat. That steady pulse in his fingertips might be his way of holding hands with the universe. Might be the very language his spirit speaks.

He’s got this way of pulling me out of my head and into the moment. Reminding me that life isn’t always about stillness and silence. Sometimes it’s about movement. About feeling our way through. About trusting the rhythm even when the melody isn’t clear.

And I pray man, I pray he never lets go of that. That nobody ever convinces him to mute his gift, to quiet his hands, to tone it down. I pray he never trades his rhythm for the approval of folks who can’t hear what he hears.

Because August? He’s not just drumming. He’s channeling.

And in those wild, unpredictable beats, I see something holy. Something real. A glimpse of the divine that can’t be preached or taught it has to be felt.

So yes, sometimes I have to say, “August, my man, please go outside.” But deep down, I’m grateful. Grateful for the reminder. Grateful for the lesson. Grateful that God sent me a little drummer to shake the walls of my quiet soul.

Because this boy of mine he carries thunder in his hands. And every beat he lays down is like a heartbeat from heaven, reminding me that we're all just trying to find our rhythm in this big, noisy, beautiful life.

Keep drumming, son.

Keep letting your spirit speak through sound.

And when the world gets too quiet, too heavy, too lost Be the beat that brings us back to life.