Having the Prime of My Life

 I think I was born singing. At least that’s what my mother always said. Although I didn’t grow up to be a famous vocalist or musician, song has been an important part of my life, a part of me I cannot deny. Perhaps why I still prefer my own melodious escort while driving alone. Asthma has challenged my vocal cords, and I can no longer be in a choir or church praise team, but I croak out a few notes in the congregation with gusto.

And of course, music brings to mind the best memories of many loved ones now gone to Glory.

One of my earliest memories is singing with my father, who played the guitar for me. Patiently, I might add. Having a strange vocal range, between alto and tenor, I could rarely sing any song in its written key. When asked to perform a solo at church or for a family get-together, transposition was a must. Dad worked with me until we managed to find just the right set of chords to make me sound like a pro.

Until later in life, I never understood the degree of talent that it took. Nor the love packaged between the chords.

Through all the spats and sputters of their 63-year marriage, mother harmonized with Dad, maybe what kept them together during the tumults. In church circles, their most requested song was “Whispering Hope.”

In family and social circles “Quicksilver” became their trademark.

I was not an easy child to raise; my rebellion was evident at a young age. I think back at the sorrow I caused my parents. Perhaps one of the memories that kept me from going too far in my social temper tantrums was the memories I had of singing Sunday School choruses or the familiar hymns of the church while my mother and I cleaned up the kitchen after supper. I still sing while I load and unload the dishwasher, do the laundry, vacuum, or simply go for a walk. Singing is the way I fill my empty space, dry my tears, and remind myself of God’s patient love for me.

I cannot think of my grandmother without seeing her seated on a piano bench. Toward the end of her life, Alzheimer’s ravaged her memory. She might forget names, but she never forgot how to play. She’d entertain both staff and other residents with the old hymns of the faith.

Holidays, birthdays, and sometimes a simple Sunday dinner involved the gathering of relatives, music, our dessert, along with Mom’s lemon meringue pie. Grandma and my father’s youngest brother took turns playing the piano, Dad on the guitar, and my brother playing the ukulele. Mom and I added our voices to the chorus.

My grandfather, who couldn’t carry a tune, loved to be our audience, his favorite being “The Old Rugged Cross.”  Even today, when I hear this song, I see Grandpa slapping his knee and smiling as the family sang together in four-part harmony.

On occasion, my uncle from Kansas visited. He’d sing in church and we’d jam at our house. Saved as a young person, he was the domino that impacted my family toward a Christian heritage. Saved as a teenager, he sang in the Billy Graham Crusade choir, perhaps catapulting him toward his long musical career as a professor of music. To this day, whenever I hear “The Lighthouse” I am covered with goosebumps, remembering his powerful tenor that billowed from a heart committed to the Lord.

After college, my trips home were sparse. I missed the way music filled the rafters of my parents’ home. I married, had children, and remained active in the music ministry program of any church I attended. While I love contemporary music, these new songs cannot bring back the fond memories of my youth, the chords of faith intertwined with an imperfect family that loved God perfectly.

Every generation, I expect, has a song in its heart that carries them back to a time and place of special memory. My husband proposed to me while a musician sang John Denver’s “Lady, My Sweet Lady,” the song I would choose for my walk down the aisle. We chose “Amazing Grace”  as we took communion. When I hear these songs, I am reminded of the gift of love we found in each other, a love that has survived many tests against our union.

As I near the last lap of my life, I ask myself what my heritage song might be. Without a doubt, I know I want the hymn, I Bowed on My Knees and Cried Holy, sung at my funeral.

I look forward to a Great Day when my voice will join those I loved who have gone before and those I love still in eternal song.