Of Sicilians and Songs

Buried high inside a wooden cupboard, we find it.

"Alley" by Carl Campbell, Creative Commons cc license 

A dusty cardboard box with black marker states "Tapes for Car Trips."  And the music for our family's road trips stands shoulder to shoulder, encased in black plastic cassette tapes labeled with my Dad's handwriting. Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, Phil Collins, Dan Fogelberg and Bruce Cockburn. I'm not sure where all the Petra albums are, but here too are the Moody Blues and two cassettes marked simply, "Harmonica and Guitar, rock and blues."

Later in the day, Bruce Cockburn's husky Canadian vocals and fine guitar-playing swell through my kitchen, and the memories flood back, joy shining in.

Music is powerful.

We see it in tambourine-shaking Sicilians stepping out onto apartment balconies, stacked high to the sky. Cream-colored high rises stretch tall and the Italian men and women lean out, belt it loud, and call out new verses to each other. While quarantines fall tighter, death rates rise, and brave hospital staff around the world battle to save lives, we see beauty rise even higher.

Sicilians lean over balconies and sing to each other, keeping time with tambourines, accordions, and recording mobile phones.

I call over my husband, daughter, son and niece and hit replay on the short social media video clip of the Italians singing. Voices find their harmony, and I can see multiple instruments. Joyful, hope-filled tears rise to my eyes, and I hug my daughter. "It's happy tears," I explain to my son.

"There are videos of Chinese people shouting to each other from their homes too," Morgan says, her voice close to my ear as we all lean in to watch the clip again. "They're yelling encouragement to each other," she clarifies as my eyebrows raise.

"Where is it?" I ask and she shrugs.

"Online, you'll find it," she grins and heads downstairs.

And that's just it, huh?

As the headlines cycle, and the numbers rise, we battle it together. Together with Italy, Iran, China, and almost every other country, we can stand together.

We can stand up and lean out. We can look for ways to stand tall and to belt it out, these songs of solidarity and soul.

I hit print and watch a second sheet of paper head to our printer downstairs. "Hi, we're your neighbors at.... As Corona Virus heats up, we wanted you to know that we're here and we can try to help if you need it..."

I admit, I'm not quite sure how to do this. In a time of protective measures to guard those of lower immune systems, I don't think knocking on neighbors' doors may be the best step. So I'll pray and brainstorm how to get it to them.

For you and me today? God is big and good, and he walks beside us. He sings songs of love to his world, and I want to do that better too.

Singing beside you, my friend, and praying for the people battling hard things in our world today.


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In the Muggy Nights after a Month of Headlines

I remember it, how the air was hot even though it was September 2007 and how Mark had crossed the stage, his shoulders carrying the pain.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Mick Baker Rooster, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo Credit: Flickr user David, Creative Commons, cc license

His voice softer than normal, he had smiled at the forty or fifty students in the darkened worship sanctuary and said, "Well, we had planned to tell you exciting news tonight--"

Several junior high girls squealed in excitement, missing the qualifier.

"-- about being pregnant, but Jen and I miscarried yesterday. We're sad and grieving but we know that God is still good."

The teens had gasped, sighed, and moved instantly to crowd around us. Not trusting my voice, I had simply nodded and bit back tears. The students and youth leaders engulfed us, putting hot hands on our shoulders, backs, arms, and heads.

Their words spilled out on a sticky muggy September night, and my sadness spilled down and over. They spoke words of grief aloud to us, and to our God, and they hugged us tight.

Today, in this week of muggy days where sadness leaks out for so many names, that image flashes back to me. Because the most comforting thing about that night in 2007 was how they came alongside to simply cry with us and to honor that little one's life.

In our world with so much violence and grieving and death today, can we just come alongside in the muggy nights to say: we cry with you. We ache with you.

Your loved ones' names matter. Their lives mattered. 

We ache and grieve with you. We moan in surprise and pain at each new headline, and we say your names from Florida, Iraq, Saudi Arabia,  Louisiana, Minnesota,  Texas, Syria, and more.

Your names matter. Your lives mattered, and we ache with you and sit in respectful crying sadness with you in the dark muggy nights.


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