Christmas in June
0617
Christmas in June
I found myself head-humming a Christmas carol,
“O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant…” and wondered why that song suddenly reverberated in my spirit as I drove home from the store on a late June. Hmmm. I had spent the first quarter of this New Year moping,
drooping, and dragging around a passel of pain, day by inexorable day. My days had been unremarkable, no absolutely
dismal ones but no spectacularly Alleluia-Thank-You-Jesus-ones, either. First of all, since second grade, I've understood that buckets run from me; it seems I can't carry one, and certainly not multiple ones, in one.
This is what happened. My teacher whom I lived to please, had assigned us to memorize "The Star Spangled Banner," with the expectation that we would sing all the stanzas the following afternoon. What a challenge! I went home and did just that. The following day, our teacher stood in front of the class and directed us through its verses. When we finished, she said, "Let's sing it again."
We did, but only half of us finished it. "Let's try it again," she suggested a third time, which we did, except now only five or six voices made it through to the end. When we finished, my adored teacher looked directly at me and said matter-of-factly, "You're the one who's throwing us off key." If the ground could have swallowed me whole, I'm sure I would have died happy.At her pronouncement, my singing voice dried up. From then on, whatever managed to make its way out of my mouth sounded like a frog starved of the lubrication needed to make its way out of a desert-dry hole.
I never tried out for a seat in my church's "Junior Choir." Too afraid of being the voice that threw the group off, I never even learned if I were a soprano, alto, or tenor. (I was pretty sure i wasn't a bass because I didn't sound like the brothers in the Men's Chorus). I pretended I wanted to be a Junior Usher, all prim and proper in my white Peter Pan blouse and black pleated skirt, both hands encased in thick white gloves, the right one folded behind my back and the left one holing the Sunday Bulletin.
To make matters worse, on Sundays when the three of us stood to sing the Morning Hymn, my daughters would shush me with "Lip synch, Mom, everybody's looking over here at you!" Maybe it was that kind of history that kept me from even thinking about singing anything.
At any rate, there I was, driving back home and humming a Christmas song. What was that all about? I had just segued into a rendition of "What's It All About, Alfie?" No rhyme or reason to it. From joy to wondering. And then, as I do often since my Sweet Baby Girl died, I turned the question into one that I know (and knew) brings no answer, at least one I know Then one of Mother's hymns assured, "In the sweet bye and bye, we shall rest on that beautiful shore... " I said I couldn't sing, not that I couldn't memorize. Remember, I learned l The Star Spangled Banner overnight
What's it all about? It is a question I have asked God, not Alfie, since she left this earth plane. What's it all about? Was she kidnapped? Did she go willingly? I ask her all of the time, too: Why did you leave? Why didn't you wait for me to get to the hospital? What was the rush? Did you know you would be leaving? Did you have a choice? Did it catch you by surprise? Whatever the manner or meaning of her transport, the biggest question is WHY? Always will be. A THOUSAND WHYS? This WHY carries no satisfactory, acceptable answer. WHY.
This is what happened. My teacher whom I lived to please, had assigned us to memorize "The Star Spangled Banner," with the expectation that we would sing all the stanzas the following afternoon. What a challenge! I went home and did just that. The following day, our teacher stood in front of the class and directed us through its verses. When we finished, she said, "Let's sing it again."
We did, but only half of us finished it. "Let's try it again," she suggested a third time, which we did, except now only five or six voices made it through to the end. When we finished, my adored teacher looked directly at me and said matter-of-factly, "You're the one who's throwing us off key." If the ground could have swallowed me whole, I'm sure I would have died happy.At her pronouncement, my singing voice dried up. From then on, whatever managed to make its way out of my mouth sounded like a frog starved of the lubrication needed to make its way out of a desert-dry hole.
I never tried out for a seat in my church's "Junior Choir." Too afraid of being the voice that threw the group off, I never even learned if I were a soprano, alto, or tenor. (I was pretty sure i wasn't a bass because I didn't sound like the brothers in the Men's Chorus). I pretended I wanted to be a Junior Usher, all prim and proper in my white Peter Pan blouse and black pleated skirt, both hands encased in thick white gloves, the right one folded behind my back and the left one holing the Sunday Bulletin.
To make matters worse, on Sundays when the three of us stood to sing the Morning Hymn, my daughters would shush me with "Lip synch, Mom, everybody's looking over here at you!" Maybe it was that kind of history that kept me from even thinking about singing anything.
At any rate, there I was, driving back home and humming a Christmas song. What was that all about? I had just segued into a rendition of "What's It All About, Alfie?" No rhyme or reason to it. From joy to wondering. And then, as I do often since my Sweet Baby Girl died, I turned the question into one that I know (and knew) brings no answer, at least one I know Then one of Mother's hymns assured, "In the sweet bye and bye, we shall rest on that beautiful shore... " I said I couldn't sing, not that I couldn't memorize. Remember, I learned l The Star Spangled Banner overnight
What's it all about? It is a question I have asked God, not Alfie, since she left this earth plane. What's it all about? Was she kidnapped? Did she go willingly? I ask her all of the time, too: Why did you leave? Why didn't you wait for me to get to the hospital? What was the rush? Did you know you would be leaving? Did you have a choice? Did it catch you by surprise? Whatever the manner or meaning of her transport, the biggest question is WHY? Always will be. A THOUSAND WHYS? This WHY carries no satisfactory, acceptable answer. WHY.
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