Thanks to others, I can sing with Evelyn as I think about my faith
Last week’s post shared three pieces of advice making a difference to me. This week I’m keeping the promise I made then to share two more.
Do you ever sing with Evelyn?
A friend asked after we had been together and he had noticed her singing every word, from memory, in groups singing hymns.
I had seen her singing, too, with the words on the screen at church. And I had heard her singing along with a contemporary Christian music playlist I found on my phone and sometimes played for her. But I realized I had never sat and sung with her.
So I’ve tried. But more often than not, I just can’t continue without breaking down.
One of our current favorites. Watch for yourself here.
When this person—sometimes confused, often unable to complete a sentence, occasionally angry, regularly agitated, only intermittently engaged—when this person with a quivering soprano and a Parkinson’s tremor catches my eye across the room as she eagerly sings along with the video playing on the TV, sometimes it’s more than I can bear.
These days her melodies wander all around the tune we’re hearing. But she sings enthusiastically. Sometimes she smiles at me as we sing the words together. She seems not to notice when my voice falters and I stop so she won’t see tears.
Old songs we don’t sing in church anymore (and I’m not pining for that) bring meaning I never saw before:
Not a burden we bear,
Not a sorrow we share,
But our toil He doth richly repay;
Not a grief or a loss,
Not a frown or a cross,
But is blest if we trust and obey.
I have no idea what the words mean to Evelyn. What are her doubts or fears? Does she bear a burden of sorrow or grief or loss like the one I’m learning to carry? If she could understand what I’m feeling as I try to sing with her, maybe she’d cry, too.
I’d say the same for another song from my decades of churchgoing. Years ago, when we used it only as an invitation hymn at the end of the service, my primary thought most often was, When will this end so church will be over?
But here on a quiet afternoon at home with Evelyn and no particular agenda, there’s a moment to wonder what invitation God has for me now. I look at my immature self from decades ago, and I know that person couldn’t have imagined the thoughts filling my mind and the emotion choking my throat today as I try to sing with Evelyn.
Just as I am, though tossed about
With many a conflict, many a doubt
Fighting and fears within without
Oh, Lamb of God, I come, I come.
But I’m grateful for my friend’s encouragement. I’ll keep trying to sing with Evelyn and working to maintain the melody in my own heart as well. I want to believe God is doing something with the effort.
That leads me to a second bit of advice I haven’t forgotten about.
“Be of good heart, Mark. I know you are of good faith.”
My support group leader ended an email with that encouragement. I took it as she meant it: kind and helpful. But I also felt a little pinch. How does—and how should—my faith connect with my demeanor or outlook or attitude?
My goal from Day One of this blog has been to “keep it real.” Even King David, “a man after God’s own heart,” (see 1 Samuel 13:14) sprinkled the psalter with songs of lament. If he can complain to God, I need not force myself to end every reflection on a positive note, to pepper every account with clichés about “God’s got this,” “I know things will work out in the end,” or “This is hard, but Heaven is real.”
Life—at least my life—doesn’t come neatly wrapped in a perfect bow. I’m determined to acknowledge that with this chronicle.
Life doesn’t come neatly wrapped in a perfect bow.
But as I’ve reported more than once, I see God’s goodness to us every day. Saturday, for example, I invited two couples for brunch. They have all reached out to us in multiple ways with sincere concern. I knew they’d be fine with however Evelyn coped with our time together.
We posed with the flowers Evelyn helped arrange.
Both ladies brought flowers; one came with an empty vase and asked Evelyn to help her arrange them. They both fluttered and fussed and wanted to bring food, but the casserole I was fixing was almost all we needed. I relented and let one of them bring along a bowl of fruit.
They sat with Evelyn and engaged her individually before and after we ate. They cleared the table and filled the dishwasher. They relaxed and chatted for a couple hours after the meal. We shared memories and told funny stories and talked about our kids.
It was a get-together to satisfy my extrovert need to be with people, pushing me firmly toward “be of good heart.”
These four are lifetime Christians, and their goodness to us is a simple but sure reflection of their faith—and a bolster to mine.
In those songs of lament I mentioned above, David often ends his complaint with an acknowledgment that God is ultimately in charge. I believe that. And I’m asking God to help me show it, too.