When the World is Too Much With Me

"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."  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.

Believe it or not but I find comfort in lyrics that greet me in a songbook.   While I decried my tone-deafness from second grade on,  music majors always pooh-poohed my "I can't carry a tune in a bucket," explanation.  Nevertheless, just reading the song lyrics comforted me.  Solace greets me in songs, gleaned from forced attendance at Sunday worship and Wednesday night prayer meetings.  I had no idea how deeply songs had permeated my spirit, evidently to comfort an eight-year old's innocence and isolation.  To this day, I can recall the songs I learned decades ago. 

The subliminal; peace and problem-solving living in hymns, anthems, and gospel lay dormant for years, especially as college classes introduced me to genres that included classical, opera, and even country-western.  Yet for years I've returned to hymnbook homilies or the baritone voice of James Cleveland crooning, "Peace Be Still.""Peace," he soothed, "Peace, be still."

So it is that when life becomes too burdensome, memories too intrusive, and isolation too much to carry, I reach way back and remember  Mother declare in a strong alto voice, "In my distress, He kindly will help me; He ever loves me and cares for His own."  Across the decades, I join 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."

Why must I continue being reminded of this Truth, like a student forced to repeat a grade in the school? Except now it's in the"school of spiritual knowledge. I remember feeling sorry for students in elementary school who had to repeat the third or fourth grade.  I even lamented with friends who had to spend vacation time in the "catch-up" summer school programs.  Why was it so easy to grasp learning educational concepts but ever more difficult to master spiritual truths? Is it that I am a "late bloomer"? Or, am I missing a basic understanding of the Holy Spirit because the religion of my youth came with myriad conditions, most of them fear-based? 

I got to leave before Sunday worship service after Sunday School if Mother hadn't had time to finish Sunday dinner with her innumerable Saturday tasks. Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. I attribute my cooking expertise, thankfully, to having been allowed to finish the entree, either chicken or beef, side veggies, and desserts.  Whether the family raved about my culinary exploits because they'd spent much of the afternoon in church and were famished, or if "Practice makes perfect," I don't know. Probably a little of both.  

I loved it because I didn't have to listen to the Call to Discipleship that scared the bejesus out of me.  Every Sunday!  My response, that of a preteen,  was to slam the "door-of-the-mind" on "church things" that frightened me.  Proverbially, to put cotton in my ears and aluminum foil around my heart. There!  I don't know, but right now, looking through the lens of time gives it some credence.  I just don't know.