Posts tagged ‘music’
I was standing at the counter
I was waiting for the change
When I heard that old familiar music start
It was like a lighted match
Had been tossed into my soul
It was like a dam had broken in my heart
After taking every detour
Getting lost and losing track
So that even if I wanted
I could not find my way back
After driving out the memory
Of the way things might have been
After I’d forgotten all about us
The song remembers when.
Those lyrics are from a Trisha Yearwood song entitled, not surprisingly, “The Song Remembers When”. And it has everything to do with why music is such a personal, powerful experience for me.
From the time I was young, I remember watching the adults in my life have visceral reactions to songs. I remember seeing tears in my mother’s eyes when the song “Because He Lives” was playing on the record spinning at the time. (At the time, I didn’t understand. Now that song evokes the same response in me.) I sat in the sanctuary of Emmanuel Baptist Church in Farmington, New Mexico, on Easter morning and watched tears start falling down the faces of nearly every member of the choir. I was probably 6 years old or so at the time. Years later, my parents would explain that it had been a rough path getting to the performance and it seemed like everything that could go wrong, was going wrong. All the frustration led to shortened tempers and some tense conversations. At the perfect moment in the cantata they were performing, the sun hit the rose window in the balcony and bathed the choir in colored light. The purpose of the day, the reason we were celebrating became the only thing that mattered and the responses of the choir members could be seen on their wet cheeks.
In my own life, there have been songs that have caused my eyes to fill with tears almost from the first note. There are songs that leave me invigorated and feeling like I could conquer the world. There are songs that hit me between the eyes with a truth I hadn’t considered before. And more times than I can count, I’ve heard lyrics that made me think, “Yes! That’s it! I haven’t known how to say it but those are exactly the words I’ve been looking for!”
Sometimes the songs I’m talking about are connected to matters of faith. Sometimes they are not. But one thing holds true – songs stick in my brain because I have an emotional connection to them. Or maybe I have a connection to the first time I really heard the song. Whatever the original circumstance, those songs are always there. I can go without hearing a certain meaningful song for years and when I hear it again, I’ll be able to sing every word without a mistake. More importantly, I’m instantly transported back to that moment in time when the song first imprinted itself on my heart.
Trisha was right. The song DOES remember when.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about creativity and its role in the life of a believer. God himself was creative. The very first thing we are told about him is that he created. And we, as his “image bearers” were given some of that creativity ourselves.
But how do churches treat those of a creative bent? How do churches view the use of artistic skill in worship? Truthfully? In my experience? Not well. Many churches are willing to accept poorly rehearsed musicians – “It’s for Jesus and Jesus knows the hearts of those singing so it doesn’t matter if it’s good.” Would you say the same thing about a sermon? “The pastor has a good heart so it doesn’t really matter that his sermon didn’t make sense.”
God valued music as a part of worship. In I Chronicles 15:22, we meet Chenanaiah (also spelled Kenaniah) – “Chenaniah, chief of the Levites, was in charge of the singing; he gave instruction in singing because he was skillful”. God had set apart the Levites as the priesthood. Their only job was to tend to the spiritual life of God’s people. And out of that “set aside” group, Chenaniah was set aside to lead the singing and teach others. That same passage also mentions instrumentalists who were Levites. Music done well obviously matters to God.
The life of C. S. Lewis provides another inspiration, this time in the area of writing. The following is an excerpt from a short devotional I recently read entitled “C.S. Lewis and the Call to Create” –
By the time Lewis committed his life to Jesus Christ at the age of 32, he was already on the path to a successful career as an academic and writer. While Lewis’s newfound Christian faith didn’t cause him to abandon his work as an author, his conversion clearly caused him to reimagine his work as service to God and others. As Lewis once wrote in a letter, “The question is not whether we should bring God into our work or not. We certainly should and must. The question is whether we should simply (a) Bring Him in in the dedication of our work to Him, in the integrity, diligence, and humility with which we do it or also (b) Make His professed and explicit service our job.” Lewis faith didn’t change his work. It changed his relation to his work. (Emphasis mine)
I see so many fussy articles on the web these days about the types of songs that are being sung on Sunday mornings and whether or not the praise band should be well-rehearsed to say nothing of whether or not there should be a praise band at all. People are so quick to judge the motives of those who are putting their skill to work in the service.
For those of us who are artists and musicians and writers and dancers . . . could you do me a favor? Pray for those involved in regular artistic ministry in your church. Pray that they will be steadfastly focused on their calling. Pray that everything they contribute – whether they play an instrument, sing, use their graphic design skills on the announcement slides, create holiday banners, or perform liturgical dance – comes from a surrendered heart that humbly seeks to serve. God is still inspiring artistic individuals to creatively draw attention to him. Songwriters are still creating lyrics than can touch a heart and move someone to tears. Writers are still crafting powerful statements that will impact their reader’s lives. Artist are creating breathtaking paintings and sculptures that reflect their love for God.
We, as fellow believers, need to celebrate their calling and support them in prayer. Sharing one more cranky article on Facebook will only serve to discourage and divide.
A few people have told me I shouldn’t share this story. Some fear it will give people ideas. Others think it is too shameful to share. But my reason for sharing is simple – I wish I hadn’t felt so alone all those years ago.
The picture is of my newest tattoo. Call it a “stylized semicolon” if you will.
Project Semicolon is a non-profit initiative focused on promoting mental health and preventing suicide. Semicolon tattoos are worn by those who have lost someone to suicide, those who love someone who battles suicidal thoughts because of mental illness, those who battle mental illness themselves, or those who themselves have survived suicide.
Why a semicolon? It’s a punctuation mark used in place of a period when a writer chooses not to end a sentence. The semicolon joins two sentences into a longer sentence. As for the stylized portion of my tattoo – an eighth note in place of the dot – there’s a very simple answer. Music became my lifeline during a very, very dark period.
We’ll call my bully “Oscar” (not going to use his real name because he doesn’t deserve that much respect).
I was about halfway through my 8th grade year the first time he walked up behind me in the hallway and muttered, just loud enough for only me to hear, “You know you’re worthless, right?”
I was stunned.
I stopped walking. He went around me and continued down the hallway like nothing had happened. It was the first time I’d ever had that kind of encounter with him. But it was certainly not the last.
“Oscar” and I attended a small school – about 25 kids per graduating class – but we didn’t really spend much time around each other. He preferred to play sports while I was already a committed performing arts geek.
To this day, I have no clue why he chose me.
From that first encounter, it just got worse. Multiple times a day, he’d find a way to get behind me in the hall, close enough to say horrible things that only I could hear –
“Nobody actually thinks of you as a friend. They are just pretending.”
“The world would be perfect if you weren’t in it.”
“Do us all a favor. Just kill yourself.”
“Religious freak music nerds like you have no right to go on living.”
You get the idea. At this point in my story, someone usually asks, “Why didn’t you tell someone?!” I tried to. Once. I hinted that really cruel, hateful things were being said to me on a regular basis by a fellow student. I was told that I needed to sit down and talk to the student so I could find out what I had done that made him angry. It was the first time I entertained the thought that it might be my fault. (Side note – I never again went to that particular teacher for advice.)
I was on my own. I knew that “Oscar” wasn’t the least bit interested in a sit-down. And, after a moment’s reflection, I knew that nothing I might have done warranted his behavior.
Summer offered a reprieve and I started my freshman year, hopeful that he had moved on. Or forgotten.
No such luck.
Every day. Multiple times a day. A fellow high school freshman “encouraged” me to end my own life.
Three different times during my freshman year, I made plans to give “Oscar” what he wanted.
Let me be crystal clear – I made three different attempts to end my own life because I knew it would finally get him to shut up.
But I survived. The “how” doesn’t matter much. The fact that I’m still here 30+ years later is what’s important.
With about six weeks left in the school year, “Oscar” goofed. I had started walking so close to the wall that my arm was practically brushing against the wall. The hope was “Oscar” might back off if he had to risk others hearing. His verbal attacks lessened but didn’t end.
Then it happened. He leaned in over my shoulder, risking having someone else hear as they walked by –
“You should do us all a favor and just end it.”
Her name – real name, this time – was Carla –
“Are you kidding me?! Did you really just say that to her?!”
“Oscar” nearly ran down the hall. Carla stopped me and asked how long “Oscar” had been saying those kinds of things to me. I started to cry. The next few moments are a blur. Carla and I were headed to the same class so she walked me as far as the door, got the teacher’s attention and asked her to meet us in the hall. I don’t remember what Carla’s explanation was, but the teacher gave us permission to be a few minutes late so I could go compose myself. As I was in the bathroom drying my tears and splashing water on my face, the story spilled out. Carla promised that she was going to make sure it all stopped.
Carla grabbed some mutual friends and simply told them “Oscar” had been messing with my head and asked them to help her make sure that I wasn’t left alone long enough for him to start up again. Walking to class, eating lunch, even heading to after-school rehearsals . . . I never had to worry about running into “Oscar” alone. They continued their companionship into the next school year.
I would change high schools at the end of football season the following school year. With the change of location, I got a chance to decide exactly who I was going to be.
So I got reacquainted with myself. True, “Oscar’s” verbal assaults had ended, but his words had stuck. They ran on a loop in my head that I couldn’t silence completely. The only way to fight them was to drown them out with the things that brought me joy. I remembered how much I loved music. How much I cherished playing the piano. So I poured my time and energy into that. Music became my life-line and the means by which I returned to a more realistic sense of myself.
In other words, I chose to be me.
Don’t get me wrong – life hasn’t been perfect. There have been really dark moments when I forgot who I was and allowed others to try and write my story. But I choose to keep moving forward. Sometimes it’s only a baby step and there are still times I fight with the ugly words that keep creeping back into my head. But my story isn’t over.
This new tattoo is a reminder of the whole experience. A reminder that I have the strength to make a better choice. And, hopefully, it’s a conversation starter. A chance to encourage those fighting their own dark battles; a chance to encourage them to keep looking for a reason to take one more step forward. The another . . . and another . . . and another . . .
Because the story isn’t over.