I have much respect for John, and I am grateful when he can join me for our monthly gathering. He is the son of an African Methodist Episcopal pastor who struggled through the Great Depression to keep family and congregations together. His mother was educated at a time when it was not common for African American women to receive an education. His health is failing, but he is so centered in his faith that dialysis treatments, a wheel chair, and other health restrictions cannot separate him from the love of God. I rejoice when I see him, and I know he is glad to see me as well.
Staffing can be uneven in the community where he lives so I never know if I will be meeting with two residents or a dozen, but this week a new activity assistant had fourteen gathered when I arrived. I preached and we sang, and it really was a spirit filled time. Mabel, who speaks very little, was glowing as she "sang" with us, smiling and nodding her head. Because we often meet in a room without a piano, we sing a capella, and I love being able to hear their voices as they slowly lose their self-consciousness and sing.
As I was gathering up song sheets after the service, John declared the service "magnificent." He then asked, "Would it be possible for me to get the music to these hymns sometime?" I smiled. Earlier in the week one of our volunteer pianists said that she always felt guilty for printing out the music every month for one service, and she said she is grateful that I always take her copies. They invariably get used; either a pianist forgets his or her music, or my tattered binder gets a needed update. It was her set of pristine copies that I handed to John. I wish she could have seen him hold those sheets in his hands, not as something very ordinary and disposable, but as a rare gift.
Like many good pastors of the time, John's father had made certain that John learned to play so the churches he served always had a pianist. In the often rushed transition from hospital to assisted living or skilled nursing, music books and hymnals often get left behind. Singers stop singing, and pianists stop playing. I am grateful that God gave me a very ordinary voice, limited musical skill, and the continuing nudge to just sing out loud regardless. This is not about perfecting a performance (as wonderful as that is), but rather about the valiant effort to connect our souls to our voices, and lift both to God just as we are. This is about daring to sing about courage and love regardless of where or how we find ourselves that day. This is about finding the right key in the midst of the silence and the chaos.
I have given John some music before, but there was something in the timing of all this that revealed Christ in our midst. Of sacred music being printed and passed on. Of the lifeline that friendship and service can provide. Of being held together in a most magnificent way.
Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young
at your altars, O LORD of hosts,
my King and my God.
Happy are those who live in your house,
ever singing your praise.
Psalm 84:3-4
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