Song of Songs

All of us have songs that are favorites. Some of them make us happy, some we only play when we are in a melancholy mood. Others inspire us or fill us with courage. A secular song that I have always loved is Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Waters”. It starts out quietly, just a guitar and Art’s voice sincerely promising his steady friendship. Gradually the song builds momentum. Textures are added, till the thundering, crashing orchestral accompaniment matches the deepening passion in Garfunkel’s full-throated vow of loyalty. Then he hits the final note of the song and holds it an unbelievably long time. It is absolutely awesome.

I often wish that just once in my entire life I could hit a note and hold it like that. Although I like to sing, music is not my forte. With an increasing hearing loss year by year, I dread the day when someone will kindly inform me that I am now so much not on key that it would be best to be silent. Maybe no one will say that to me, but if my voice jangles the nerves of those around me, and makes it difficult for them to stay on key themselves, it might be loving on my part to lock my voice box and throw away the key.

Once, years ago, I remember fooling around with my husband while singing a song. Totally by accident, one short, sweet, beautiful note escaped my lips, never to return again! Both my beloved and I were startled. Where did that come from? It lasted one second, the singing of that note, but the pleasure remains with me. I can say that once, and only once, I sang beautifully for one second.

Music is powerful. It lifts us up, or drags us through dreadful emotions. Whole segments of our memory are filled with musical associations. For a short period of time our family volunteered to lead hymn singing at a local Alzheimer’s nursing home. We were told that when all other memories are lost, it is often songs that linger in the minds of Alzheimer’s victims. They may not know a single beloved family member, but they can sing a hymn word for word that they have known their whole lives. Music, and the accompanying words can stay with us forever, continuing to influence us when all else has failed.

I have a song that I hope is in my heart to my dying breath. It is a favorite song, one that breaks my heart. I only play it once a year. It is part of our family’s Christmas morning tradition to play this song first, before anything else happens—except for me and my husband to get up and turn the tree lights on.

All the kids have to stay upstairs Christmas morning until they hear this song played very loudly on our CD player. That is their signal that we are ready. They wait at the top of the stairs, while their dad and I listen to the music at the bottom. Hopefully they are listening too, but I’m sure the excitement of the morning makes it difficult for some of them to take in the message.

So why do I only listen to it once a year? It’s like a favorite dessert. The more you have it, the less you appreciate it. You get tired of it. You stop paying attention to the flavors, and long for other things. Some things must come in small doses. More is not always better. More saps the power and the uniqueness, and dulls our appreciation of excellence. This song is like a powerful drug—in small doses it brings healing, hope and health. You can’t hear an inspiring speech every day and get fired up and zealous each time. And like a powerful drug, in large doses, it overcomes us, deadens us to the life it intended to bring. A powerful song is like that. Heard everyday, and we become deaf to the words. Hearing it once a year, and the lyrics stay in our heads year round. That is what this song is for me. The memory of it, the longing for heaven it arouses, sustains me until the next Christmas, when I hear it again and feel I could die for happiness.

For me, this song is Christmas. We could take away the tree, the stockings, the presents, the big turkey dinner, but if we still played this song, we would have celebrated Christmas. And on the other hand, we could have all that other stuff, but if we skipped this song, something of the celebration of the Incarnation would be lost. It is an integral part of the day, indispensable, and unbelievably beautiful.

So, what is it, you all want to know! It is “In the First Light”, which is on The Acapella Project album by Glad. The lyrics are an embodiment of the whole Incarnation story. From “But the heavens wrapped in wonder knew the meaning of his birth” to the moving finish, “But how much greater will our song be when he comes again to earth, when He comes to rule the earth”, the beautiful message of the Incarnation goes right to your heart.

Remember what I said about Art Garfunkel? Well, as Emeril Lagasse says, the singer in The Acapella Project kicked it up a notch on the last note of “In the First Light.” As a Catholic who believes in the doctrine of purgatory, I think most of us will go through a time of purification after death to prepare us for the glories of heaven. Only a few, martyrs and saints usually, go straight to heaven, based on the single-heartedness of their lives. It is my humble opinion that the singer who hits that last note in “In the First Light” merits the privilege of going straight to heaven, based on the beauty and purity and glory of his voice in that one note. It stabs my heart every time with painful pangs of longing, joy, and hope sweeping through me. Pangs that only heaven can fulfill, and for which I can only respond with tears of love and gratitude for my Savior.

It is at the moment of that last note that I feel most the painful separation of men and God, and the miracle of God himself bridging that gap. He came to our rescue. He has a balm for all our wounds, a glory to undo our degradation, a love for us that, if we knew it all, we would be annihilated with its intensity. At that last note, I feel my heart could burst with singing, and I know when I get to heaven the Glad singer, and Art Garfunkel, and I will all laugh for joy at the song that the Singer of all Songs sings for us.

Devotion and Donuts

Summer holiday weekends have come and gone, and so has our trek from Michigan to upstate New York to visit family. Many a Labor Day, Independence Day, or Memorial Day weekend has been spent going down the road—an eleven-hour trip done in one day—to be with my husband’s family. We usually add at least one day onto the trip, sometimes two, stretching it to a four- or five-day weekend. It seems reasonable, considering two of those days are going to be solid ones on the thruway.

Doing a regular trip of such duration always begets routines and traditions. Who drives which stretches? What is done in the car? What stops are made? And of course, an exact calculation of time from start to finish is determined, as well as how short and few we were able to make the stops. However, any family trip starts with the same tradition: as soon as we have made it onto the highway, we all pray a rosary together. This goes for any excursion we take on the road that keeps us from home overnight, including the two-hour drive to my family on the western side of Michigan.

We have gone through numerous methods of praying the rosary, and have tried to accommodate the children’s preferences. For a while we prayed a scriptural rosary, each child getting to lead the prayers for a mystery. Sometimes we have added other prayers at the end, like the Memorare, or an Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be for the intentions of the Holy Father. We have even let each person choose an intention that his or her mystery will be prayed for. Among the intentions, a safe trip is always included.

None of our children seemed overly fond of the rosary while growing up. They were not the ones reminding us to make sure we got it in. Given the choice, they always chose the prayer method that wss the shortest. It didn’t matter. They were a captive audience and they knew it. They could look out the window. They could daydream. They could say the prayers without enthusiasm, but the rosary went on. We didn’t do it to torture them, but to teach them a prayer discipline. Sometimes prayer is hard work. Perhaps even most of the time it isn’t something we feel we get much out of. But it is something we do, not for us, but for the one who sacrificed his all for us.

Like the rosary, the Liturgy of the Hours didn’t grab them either. But they have learned how to use the prayer book, and can lean on it as adults when prayer is dry and inspiration is a long forgotten memory. The rosary, the Liturgy of the Hours, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, and the Angelus are just some of the many ways Catholics pray. Our children need to know them. They can learn to love them later.

We only asked a few things of them while we prayed. They must sit up straight and make an attempt to stay awake. They must speak up loudly enough for everyone to hear when it is their turn to lead. They also knew that whining or fussing about it would only lengthen the amount of time it took, so they learned to cooperate.

We often shared tips with them on how to pray more effectively. They have been told how to use their imagination as the scriptures are read, to make it come alive by picturing themselves there seeing the mysteries as they happen. We taught them to pause at the beginning of each mystery long enough to get their mind focussed on it. These days we most often pray the rosary responsively: the leader prays the first half of each prayer, and the rest of the family prays the second half. Whatever method is used, the important point is that we taught them how to pray it with devotion.

Praying the rosary is not the only tradition established while we roll down the highway. We have pinpointed the location of every donut shop between here and our New York destination, and the bakery is usually our first stop. There’s no sweat when we’re going down the beaten path. The location of the desired shop is known and greatly anticipated. Some of our family members, however, experience considerable distress when breaking out into new territory, territory that might not be filled with donut enthusiasts. Some of them even come to the verge of panic when the favored nationwide franchise is not as nationwide as supposed.

There are also certain individual prejudices about different shops. Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme or Tim Horton’s? Some family members even prefer the independent donut maker—Aunt Mary’s Coffee Time Doughnuts? And horror of horrors, there are even family members who dare to request a scone or muffin at a donut enterprise. Adjustments are made to accommodate reasonable preferences, and the main point—getting a snack with that needed cup of java—is accomplished. We can work on the fine tuning of donut connoisseuring later.

Praying the rosary and stopping for donuts, at first glance, don’t seem to have much in common. It may depend on how you feel about donuts. If, like me, you are not the connoisseur, you might just prefer to skip it. You may not realize there are many choices to pick from and many ways to eat donuts. You may feel that the only thing you get out of eating donuts is fatter—who wants that? But taken in moderation they aren’t much worse than some other indulgences. Eaten slowly, with sips of coffee between bites, the flavor and texture can be savored and appreciated. The rosary, like donuts, could be skipped. We might decide it doesn’t do us any good, because we only do it one way. And whether we realize it or not, prayer is our spiritual nourishment, as essential to our spiritual health as food is to our bodily health. And like donuts, if all we prayed was the rosary for spiritual nourishment, we would soon long for other things. So, whether you have coffee and donuts or tea and scones, make that welcome break happen. And whether you pray the rosary or just read the Bible together, nourish those spiritual bodies with devotion. Just remember: the glazed crullers are mine.

This Is a Job for the Committee

There is a well-loved line our family enjoys from the movie Chariots of Fire. Eric Liddell is being pressured by several British officials to run in a race scheduled for Sunday. Athletics on Sunday is against Eric’s principles. Sunday is a day of rest. A fellow athlete, Lord Andrew Lindsay, offers to give Eric his place in a different race. It would solve the problem, but a grumpy old geezer points out, “That’s a decision for the committee.” A colleague turns to him and corrects him, “We are the committee.” The switch in races is made to the satisfaction of all.

Many times Saturday night rolls around—family night—and we have not made plans in advance for what the family activity for the evening will be. It is at that point that my husband announces with his best grumpy British accent, “That’s a decision for the committee.” Three family members are then selected: a parent, an older child, and a younger child, and they go off into the parents’ bedroom and decide what family time will be while the rest of us get the dishes cleared away and the dishwasher loaded. There are only a few rules for the committee to follow when selecting the activity for the evening. The decision has to be approved by the parent on the committee. All ideas are considered. Older kids don’t have more weight for deciding than younger ones. Once the decision is made, no one off the committee can overrule it.

Some great ideas have emerged from the committee meeting. One of my favorites was the French café night. Everyone is given half an hour to go off and write a poem (more if they are inspired). We then gather around the dining room table. The house is darkened and candles are lit. Everyone makes their favorite hot drink and we go around one at a time and share our poems. Most of them are a hoot. My husband only write in a mocking style. I try to be somewhat serious and am taken that way when I read. Usually son number two will end the evening with a reading, by request, of his epic poem “The Invasion of the Guinea Pigs”. Some family members are more enthusiastic poets than others, but everyone writes something and shares it. Here’s a sample (just verse one out of four):

Birds are chirping as I lay in my bed;

But I pull the covers right over my head.

The sun is now over the horizon line peeping,

But I don’t really care ‘cause I’d rather be sleeping.

How about this one? Anyone can write a poem like this:

Rose are red.

Coffee is black.

But some put in creamer

So I take that back.

Not all families would be comfortable with writing poetry. Sometimes instead of writing, we all select a favorite passage from a book and we each take a turn reading aloud something that is special to us. Of course, we have to set a limit on the reading length, or one person could use up the whole evening. Selections range from A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh, to J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis. Even Dave Barry and Patrick McManus have been read. Some of the selections are familiar to all of us since reading books aloud is a time-honored tradition in our family and not limited to Saturday night family time. The idea is to choose something that everyone can enjoy or get a chuckle out of.

Some ideas that have been executed by the committee’s direction have not been all that great. There was the Pudgy Bunny idea—see who can stuff the most large marshmallows into their mouth at one time. Not recommended. Besides the danger of choking, it is really gross. Our family is mostly boys so grossness doesn’t bother them as much. The winner got somewhere around twenty stuffed in before vomiting…

Then there was Stupid Picture night. We got a camera with a full roll of film in it and began doing embarrassing things in front of it! One child made himself look like the pet dog’s head had replaced his own. Someone else did things with shaving cream and hair mousse. We even took a group picture that makes me laugh to this day whenever I see it: crossed eyes, lolling tongues, fingers up noses. I campaigned hard for making it the front of our Christmas card that year, but my beloved thought it was below a minimum requirement of dignity. I still think it was a great opportunity lost…

The committee’s ideas usually aren’t outrageous, and the options most often fall between a board game (parent committee member’s first choice) and a movie (kid committee members’ first choice). It’s a good opportunity to learn how to negotiate a decision. A movie is ruled out if we just did that option the week before. Board games vary from an investment game called Acquire to Encore, Clue, or Trivial Pursuit. Some games are popular for a short time and then pass into obscurity, like Pass the Pig or Hail to the Chief, a game about the Presidents. Cancellation hearts is a good card game choice because it can be played with any number of people.

Our older boys like to order Cheap Ass games off the Internet. They are usually easy to learn, and creative in a weird way. We’ve played some of them like Give Me the Brain, Kill Dr. Lucky, Unexploding Cows, and Before I Kill You, Mr. Bond. Cheap Ass games are just as they describe: cheap. They provide the rules and a few other essentials, like specialized cards or a flimsy gameboard which you should probably laminate if you want the game to last. You provide the dice, poker chips, playing pieces or other standard equipment that can be borrowed from games you already own. Just reading the premise for the game is entertainment. For example, Give Me the Brain is based on the idea that all of you work at a fast food place, but there is only one brain between all of you. It has to be shared. Does this sound familiar?

The committee was a useful tool for a least a decade in our family. Since the members were rotated around, everyone gets a chance to give input on what the family will do together. The younger children like having some clout in decision-making, and the teenagers get a chance to be listened to. On a few occasions the parent just has to break a stalemate or the filibuster for or against an idea will never end. But most of the time the campaign for an idea is short and the activity for the evening is chosen without an uproar. So what are we doing this Saturday? I don’t know. That a decision for the committee.