There’s a lot to be said about the music we keep in our hearts.
There’s a reason we love the music we love.
It speaks to us on an intimate level, no matter cadence or rhythm or volume.
Jeff kept quite a few in his. Many of enthusiasm.
Funeral planning, I chose hymns he’d always comment on. “Oh, good!” Jeff’d exclaim when the church bulletin listed one of his favorites. He’d sometimes sigh, “Oh.” Thoughtfully noting hymns of importance. Those his mother Sally and grandmother Nannee loved.
“Oh, How I Love Jesus”
There is a name I love to hear
I love to sing its worth
It sounds like music in my ear
The sweetest name on earth
“Jesus Loves Me”
Jesus loves me!
This I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
I don’t think I chose this one. I’ve sung it before, and the pretty melody randomly pops-in to remind me from time to time.
“Hymn of Promise”
There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody;
There’s a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.
I talk to time about my love; my greatest listener.
When music talks to me, I listen for the beats and counts; steady rhythms to regulate my heart, with words that understand.
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I didn’t have to listen to AC/DC the entire drive
I don’t dislike AC/DC. The manic mouthiness is a little too raucous for early morning deer-watch drives. Absolutely, better suited to starting off a party right, then keeping you awake on a midnight swoop home.
On M-50, just outside of Tecumseh, Jeff nodded off.
Not unexpected, although that usually didn’t happen until Jackson. I made sure he was solidly snoozing, before I flipped the station, and commenced with a self-indulgent, quiet little country music sing-along.
Jeff shifted, sort of snorted, then settled down, again.
An hour and some later, at the end of the exit ramp in Lansing, I clicked the radio off, and nudged him. “Hey, wake-up,” I tickled his chin.
Jeff lifted his head as I turned the corner, checked his bearings, then turned to me and smiled. “I like listening to you sing,” he stated, sincerely.
The thing is – I can’t sing.
In 8th grade, it was strongly suggested choir might not be my best elective.
In summer theatre, I was given a silent part in Godspell – you know, a mime.
Admittedly, I endlessly played each new vinyl record (yep, I’m that old) over and over trying to perfect a lyrical breath or catch an unusual beat-part. At some point, my father would reach a breaking point and yell down the stairs for me to stop singing. I always did. Except, for that one time, I decided to hum along. He told me to stop humming, because that as off-key, too.
I can’t explain Jeff’s enthusiasm for my voice, but that’s the kind of thing love does to a person. He once compared my weird warble to the angelic lilt of Alison Krauss.
I told him he was horribly mistaken, but isn’t it sweet how love can taint your ears?
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