Surfacing

I have much respect for Teresa.  When I see her patiently sitting in her wheelchair in a community where most of the residents are much older and frailer than she, I sense an admirable resiliency. When I first met her, she told me that when she first arrived in the community she realized she had dreamt about it while she was in the hospital.  Because of the dream, she felt, at a deep level, that she was safe.  This sense of belonging does seem to ground her. 

   

When I saw her yesterday, I offered her a song sheet, but she replied, as do many, "I do not sing."  I expected her to wheel out the door, but she stayed in the room, but kept in the back, away from the group.  However, eventually she moved closer. Then, a few minutes later, she signaled that she wanted a song sheet. 

 

After the service, I walked over to meet a woman who was sitting close to Teresa. Teresa said that Carol was her friend. I was delighted to hear this introduction and told them that.  Then Teresa said to me, "You have been coming here for awhile now."  That is true; I have been visiting that community for several years. Then she said, "I am going to try to sing more." I think some of her willingness to give singing a go was because of the presence of Carol, a woman she calls friend.  Trust, always a welcomed participant, had entered the room and found a place to settle in. 

I periodically share with the people who gather with me my story of almost not accepting the call to SpiritCare when I realized I would be leading the singing. I was convinced that I was not up to that leadership role, but Jesus would simply not let me go. Yesterday, I told those with me that had I insisted on holding on to my reluctance rather than listening to that deep voice within, I would have missed the rich experience that SpiritCare has been for me. I would have missed knowing them.  

My voice is profoundly ordinary. I can read music, but only at a rudimentary level.  I have never been able to sight read.  I know I test our pianists' patience because I seldom think to count. Yet, I am grateful for my common voice.  If my voice was beautiful and skilled, I think people would be even less likely to join their voice with mine.  One of my deepest desires is that the frail and ill use their voice and sing their praises.  Our voices and our faith must be exercised or they get buried by ennui and a sense that our lives simply don't matter anymore.  Once the voice is no longer engaged, isolation, and even despair, can quickly take hold.  These  are forces to take seriously for they are not easily banished.   

    

Teresa's slow movement into the group was wonderful to witness.  The quiet voices that surfaced that day were beautiful to hear. I never tire of hearing rough, shaky voices come to life because I know what I am hearing is courage rising.  I hear Jesus listening, and I know love.        

  

Your ear, beloved Listener, opened wide, 

Pressed to each portion of my heart, my life. 

Attuned to the slightest vibration of my being, 

Attentive to the constant rhythms of my soul. 

You hear the cry in the throat of my heart. 

My troubles do not cease with your awareness

But they soften, loosen some of their grip, 

Become bearable, touchable, endurable. 

If your attentive solicitude blesses so fully, 

Surely I, too, can listen that closely to others.   

 

Fragments of Your Ancient Name, 

Joyce Rupp