Sing Out

Oh, the days of having to stand around the piano and sing hymns and gospel with the family.  It seemed like it would normally occur on Saturday evenings.  My dad was always in the thick of it, singing with gusto and trying to motivate the rest of us.  Trisha would normally be the one to sit on the bench to accompany, though Margie was usually the one who planted the idea of the sing-along in the first place.  Mike would stand in the back and contribute a good tenor line.  If Mom didn't hear all the parts, particularly the alto line (which was mine) she would say, "Sing out."  If that didn't work, she'd do a little push on the back so there was no mistaking who she was talking to.  "Sing out," she would say.  "Sing out." 

I wouldn't have been cool if I didn't put up at least a little pre-adolescent objection.  My strategy would usually be to cross my arms and overcompensate in meeting her request, overpowering everybody else to get her off my back.  What I wouldn't give to stand around the piano with my family like that again.

My mom inspired my love of music at a very early age.  My earliest church memory was standing in the pew at Corunna Church of the Nazarene.  I don't know who I was supposed to be sitting with, but both Mom and Dad were in the choir loft as the service proceded.  When the pastor asked us to bow our heads, I got this urgent need to be with my mom.  She looked so pretty up there in her choir robe.  I reasoned I might be able to worm my way out of the pew and sneak onto the stage next to her if I was really quiet.  It worked.  And with all those witnesses, she didn't dare discipline me!

A little later, I remember standing beside her at Owosso Church of the Nazarene and listening for her alto harmonies.  They always seemed to be dead on, and it was her voice that introduced me to the idea of multiple parts.  I don't think I was more than six years of age at the time.  I entered my first music competition at the age of seven and won my first trophy.  I never would have had the courage to try if it hadn't been for her encouragement.

As I grew, I tried to grow my range, too.  My mom kept me humble, though.  She was both my greatest advocate and my biggest critic.  She wouldn't lead me to believe I sang well if I didn't.  If I tried to sing something that was too high or just not the right style, she pulled no punches.  It didn't matter if I fumed.  She had my best interest at heart, and she was willing to ruffle my feathers a little if it made me stronger.  She wouldn't let me off if I hadn't put my practice time in.  She worked with me on shading, enunciation, and stage presence from as early as I ever remember singing.  I still carry those lessons with me.

As I stand in church now and sing, I imagine her in heaven.  Though in this life she would have called the music in my service "jivvy-jivvy," I fancy she likes it now, understanding now that praises and worship can take many forms.  It is not just the music from my church that she hears but also the music from Linda's, Mike's, Trisha's, Margie's, and Katina's churches.  All at the same time.  In perfect balance.  No one needs to tell her to sing out.  She does it with no prodding.  She does it with all the passion her spirit possesses.  And it's as if we're around the piano as a family again.