I Must Tell Jesus

"I must tell Jesus all of my trials, I cannot bear these burdens alone.  In my distress He kindly will help me; He ever loves and cares for His own."

Believe me or not, I find comfort in words that greet me from the pages in a Hymnal.  Although I declared my tone deafness from second grade on, music teachers always pooh-poohed my "I can't carry a tune in a bucket" lament.  I know I can't sing! (I believe they did, too, although they couldn't bring themselves to admit it).  Nevertheless, solace comes to me in songs, gleaned from forced attendance at Sunday worship and Wednesday night prayer meetings.  

I had no idea how songs had soaked into my psyche while comforting a woefully shy eight-year old's pains and pangs.  For me, the subliminal peace and enlightenment living in hymns, anthems, and gospel music lay dormant for years.  Especially after college courses introduced me to the genre of classical, chamber, and other "high class music," I sort of kicked that old-fashioned stuff to the curb. 

Since then,  however, I've retreated to hymnbook homilies and the baritone voice of (the late) James Cleveland crooning "Peace, be still."  Peace, he soothes, be still.  So when life becomes too burdensome, memories too intrusive, and isolation too much to handle, I reach way back and remember hearing Mother singing an early morning sermon.  

"I must tell Jesus all of my troubles; He is a kind, compassionate friend; If I but ask  Him, He will deliver, Make of my troubles quickly an end," she would sing in a warm contralto voice.  (Unlike me, she could sing, which means Daddy must've been the one who contributed the-can't-carry-a-tune-in-a-bucket-gene. 

In Spirit even now across the silent decades, I join in the chorus.  "I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus! I cannot bear my burdens alone. I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus" Jesus can help me, Jesus alone."