It was no small feat to gather the animals and dolls each summer morning to go for my walk in Hugo’s field. I had just enough to fill my brother’s hand-me-down red wagon. But I didn’t place them directly inside, the bottom was too rusty. In my brother’s defense, he didn’t care for “babies,” but hauled tools to build his own scooter in the shed. He was not concerned with the orange residue that could easily ruin a baby’s dress or an animal’s fur coat. To protect their delicate nature, I placed my best blankets from Ben Franklin underneath them. And to protect the blankets, underneath I put sheets from last week’s Alexandria Echo Press.
When everything and everyone was situated, out of rust’s way, off we would go into Hugo’s field. I imagined they were afraid, (only imagining because I felt it myself), so I would sing to them, sing to me. And the music always cleared the path. Even in the overgrown wheat, we walked on, lifted by each note, careful only to clear the way, and not damage the growth (Hugo reminded me of this, and rarely in song.)
Yesterday, for the first time, I heard a choir singing my words. A poem I had written was made into a song. As they sang, I felt the tears of tenderness drop gently on my legs’ goosebumps. With the choral field, I was clear, out of rust’s way.
I don’t know how to save the world, I’m not sure anyone does. But maybe along the way, we could make the journey a little lighter. Chase away the daily fear, with blankets and a song. Never to damage, but continue the path. In my youthful optimism, I can hear the choir sing.
Other than the birds in the trees, Bud Christianson was the first to demonstrate the pure joy of music. He wasn’t just teaching it, he was living it. He directed the band at Jefferson Senior High. The only faculty member to drop the mister, we called him Christy. It suited his swagger.
This was long before Fame, Glee, and frankly before most of us had cable television. But I, we, knew we were in the presence of something special. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he told us before the spring concert that not only were we going to play our instruments, but we were going to sing. But we’re the band, we’re not the choir, some questioned. “But listen to that music,” he said, “how can we help but sing?! And stand up when you do!” His enthusiasm was infectious. It did feel good! So in between puffs on my clarinet, I stood, jumped beside my section (I would have flown if I could have) and I, we, sang with all of our hearts. There was no band. No choir. No audience. No separation whatsoever. Because the music!!!
Have we lost the ability to hear? To celebrate our differences? I’m not ready to let it go. I must stand. We must stand! Can’t you feel it? We have to be in this together. United. What do you have without the music?
We weren’t supposed to eavesdrop. And I could understand for the phone, the party line. No one wanted to hear the wringing of our sweaty hands around the mouthpiece, or our muffled giggles. But sometimes, we were just there, in the thick of the conversation. Running in through the screen door, jumping straight into the debate over the current episode of Days of Our Lives. Hearing words like affair and betrayal. Not knowing the meaning, nor the context, desperate to work them into the next conversation with cousins. My grandma, giving me, us, the “zip your lip” signal from across the kitchen.
So I knew the routine. But sometimes, my curiosity got the best of me, and I risked it. Surely something about church couldn’t be so bad. “What did she mean about the choir?” Now I knew my grandma, she went to church, but she wasn’t the minister. So why did the neighbor lady, sipping egg coffee from her stained cup, say it to my grandma? “Say what?” Grandma asked. “She said you were preaching to the choir?” “Oh, that’s just an expression,” she replied. “But what does it mean?” “It means ‘you’re telling me something I already know.’ You know, like the choir is always there hearing the message…and maybe the ones who need to hear it the most aren’t there.” “So why do we do it? Why do you do it?” I asked. She wiped her hands on her apron, picked up her ever present cup of coffee, brought it close to her lips, grasped it with the other hand — like it was the thought itself she was holding — lowered the cup a little and smiled, “because the choir keeps singing.” I smiled in return. I knew I had heard something special, with no constraint of the zip it sign. I ran out into the summer song. From what I could hear, all was well, would be well, on Reuben and Elsie’s farm.
The worse we sang, the balder he got. Each wrong note hit in our seventh grade choir raised Mr. Dehlin’s hand to the top of his head, rubbing in desperation. How could he direct us to the right note? He seemed to be willing the answer inside his brain with the hand that carried the baton.
I don’t remember the note, nor the song, but no one in the alto section seemed to be hitting it. He directed David Alstead to hit the note on the piano. Again. And again. The note rang through the choir room. The problem was that that one poor note had to compete with all of the noise in our teenage heads. The noise of the upcoming exams in English and Math. Who was dating whom. Who was about to break up. Why was she wearing that? Would we be invited to the dance? Would there be time to get to get to the locker room to grab the forgotten book? Who would we sit next to on the bus. Again! — he pointed the baton at David. Again! He played the note and we sang something close to it as a section, but not close enough. Mr. Dehlin went down the line of altos, pointing the baton at each person. One by one. Note by note. Each missing by a hair – a hair that seemingly fell from his head to the floor. Twice through the line. Getting closer each time. He had our attention now. And we sang. We sang that glorious note. He raised both hands in the air, then collapsed them to his knees. We all cheered (in the right key!). It was only a note. But he got us there. There was still a whole song to learn. But he gave us our victory. Our moment. He stood tall again. Tapped the baton on the music stand. Gave a look to David. One quick flick of the baton, and we were off – in song!
Through our junior high years we held countless concerts. Parents gave us standing ovations for the mere fact of being born. But it was that impossible note reached that I remember the most. And what it took to get us there.
My love for music has never faltered. It has layed beside me during the darkest times. Danced with me through the highest. Pushed my lawn mowing legs. Moved my paintings, stroke by stroke. Brightened breakfasts. Made sacred each holiday, each friendship. Gave me the soundtrack for hellos and goodbyes. Note by note.
I suppose we never forget those who walk with us, battle with us, just to get us through — see us through — to become our best selves… those who give us not only the note, but also a reason to sing!
We were at the doctor’s office yesterday. A routine, non-urgent appointment for Dominique. A small hedge separates the office from a school. Facing the window, I could see the kids running with a ball. A makeshift soccer game on the small playground. It has occurred to me through the years, traveling through countries, cities, villages, that there is a ubiquitous sound — children playing. It has a universal language that is distinct and recognizable. Words mixed with laughter, that can only really be described as joy.
This lilt was broken up by the sound of the ball hitting against the exterior wall of the doctor’s office. She said excuse me, and allowed herself the one minute it took to open the back door and throw the ball over the hedge to the now silent children. As soon as the ball landed on their side, their beautiful chorus continued.
It was only a moment, but it was beautiful.
I picked a few tulips from our yard and placed them in a vase. I have always been told to place your flowers, your plants, whenever possible, in front of a mirror. This doubles the beauty. Tulips become Tulipalooza! The bouquet seems vast. The joy is reflected.
What a lesson in humanity. I ask myself, “Am I doing that? Am I reflecting the joy?” I hope I am. And it can be as easy as returning a smile. Joining the laughter. Being present. Involved. Throwing a ball back over the fence. We have a decision to make. Minute by minute. Day by day. Are we going to focus on the negative, or reflect the best of us. I want to be a part of the lilt. The song. What if we all tried to reflect the universal joy?
She sang with her whole body, this woman in the choir. I was just a child at Bethesda Lutheran Church. Sitting in the pew in front of the choir loft. The crowd was silent as she swished to the music stand. I know now that it was her nylons rubbing together, but then it seemed as if she were floating. She was more strapped in, than wearing that polyester dress. The fabric gripping each curve of her torso, rising up to the gold plated brooch on her shoulder. The organist began the intro, and I heard her breathe in. I could feel myself being pulled back with the intake. I turned around, resting my head on the wooden pew. It would not be enough to say she “sang” this song, this hymn, “The old rugged cross,” but more that this music rose from within her. It rolled, so majestic, through each ripple of that Lutheran polyester, gathering strength in her core, building through her heart, and then, like powerful lava flowed over the congregation. She said she would cherish the old rugged cross, and I, we, believed her.
I want to say her name was Doris. I’m sorry if that’s not right. But I can see her, to this day. Rising above us all, with this gift of song.
I don’t think I can recite most of the things we had to memorize. I can’t recall the sermons. But I remember the pure grace I saw with this woman. This unconventional beauty.
My mother is still waiting for a call of support from her church. It’s only been six years since she received her first diagnosis of cancer. But, at the same time, she has been given love. Friends who show up with cookies. Rides to doctor appointments. Beautiful cards. And books. Phone calls of laughter. Hugs of encouragement. Shared tears. For what is church, other than the kindness of people. The grace of the imperfect, rising up! I give thanks for each Doris willing to carry your burden for just a few moments. Moments that will last a lifetime.
The first movie (without Jiminy Cricket) I remember seeing in grade school was The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, starring Cicely Tyson. The teacher wheeled in the television, pulled all the shades, and we sat on the floor with our legs crossed (I am ashamed now that we called it Indian style – I won’t any longer – when you know better, you do better). It felt important, and it was. Miss Pittman aged before us like magic. And I wasn’t sure if it was happening in real time. I was so young, and television was still magic, and I didn’t know if Cicely Tyson was young, or if she too, was 100 years old. I know when she drank from the “whites only” fountain at the end, I cried. I know I went home from our all white classroom to our white house and talked to my mom about it. But what did I say? What did she say? I’m not sure. I hope we talked about the civil right movement. But did we? I can’t be sure.
And in a blink of an eye, as quickly as Ms. Tyson aged on that screen, she did the same in real life, and the year became 2021. She died a few days ago. I wonder if it felt as fast to her. Two blinks. Two lifetimes. Has anything changed? I can’t be sure.
Blessed Assurance. The choir sang it to her, with her, around her, at the Kennedy Center Honors in 2015. She was being honored for her lifetime achievements – so yes, some things were changing. But were they really? People were marching in the streets with signs of Black Lives Matter. Things hadn’t changed enough. People are still questioning it. People aren’t assured. I think the best explanation I have heard for the Black Lives Matter movement is this — I know people say, well, all lives matter, we should just say all… and yes, all lives do matter, but now, now more than ever, we need to recognize this movement. Take for example, when a country or a state has a problem, a hurricane, an earthquake, a shooting, we post their flags on facebook – saying Spain matters, or Texas matters – and we raise up their symbols or flags. In doing so, we aren’t saying that other countries don’t matter, other states don’t matter, but we are saying at this time, our neighbors, our friends, in this hour of need, they matter. Well, my friends, in this hour (because we are here now, no magic of screens) our black friends need us – they need us to raise their flag and say that they matter. In doing so, I think, I have to believe, that that blessed assurance can, and will come.
I don’t have the innocence of youth to rely on. I have to be better, because I know better. We all have to be better. We have to talk about the difficult things, the important things, and make action of our words, live out the lessons we have been taught, from Miss Jane Pittman, to Martin Luther King, to Maya Angelou…when we know better, we do better. Stacey Abrams can’t be the only verb in our sentence. We must all be in the conversation, the difficult, uncomfortable, growth of humanity. Because isn’t that where all the blessings lie, in these difficult, most beautiful truths?
It all goes so fast, but I want to capture a moment between the blinks. I want to be sure that I tried. Blessed Assurance, in knowing we tried. Let’s roll up the shades, and let a little more light in.
