An Epiphany at the Widows’ Brunch

This morning, Meg and I attended a brunch for widows hosted by our church’s deacons. “Youtube stars” that we are, we were invited to come as the entertainment. Our set list included several folk songs that I teach in the classroom along with a few songs my Nickelodeon Choir learned for our 1970s-themed show several years ago. Meg strummed lightly on the ukulele while a room full of sweet ladies smiled and sang.

“I got a brand new pair of roller skates, you got a brand new key. I think that we should get together and try them out, you see…”

“Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” was also a big hit—although I now consider the performance by my first graders to be the definitive version. Imagine their little heads bobbing from side to side and a trio of tiny girls dances during the instrumental interlude, complete with galoshes, rain coats, and spinning umbrellas. I miss those days. But sharing that song with this group made my heart glad.

We sang campfire songs and lullabies. I believe their favorite was “You Are My Sunshine.” When I was a girl, I learned only the first verse. It’s often sung as a lullaby, but the full version hits differently.

It’s a song about loss.

Knowing that, I had left verse 2 out of my printed song sheets. Apart from the deacons, Meg, and me, every lady in that room had lost her husband. As I typed the lyrics yesterday, it seemed best to omit the sad part. What kind of entertainers show up at a widows’ brunch and sing about loss? It seemed too “on the nose.”

Except that by singing time, the leader of our church’s Grief Share ministry had already done a wonderful job initiating that conversation with compassion and grace. When we got to that part of the song, it didn’t matter that I had left out verse 2. They all knew the words.

“The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping. I dreamt I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken. So I hung my head and cried…”

Hearing their voices, I wondered how I could have thought “omitting the sad part” was the right call. All over the world, people sing about their lives. They always have. And eventually, that means loss. For all of us. If we structure our days to avoid any mention of that, how can we truly connect with each other?

There have been times in the classroom when a song stirs up feelings of grief or sadness in a child. Sometimes it’s the words. Other times, a beautiful, melancholy melody will have a similar effect even without words. Barber’s Adagio for Strings will do that, for example. When this happens, I have the chance to connect meaningfully with a child and meet them in their sadness.

 It happens pretty regularly in my family these days, as well.

A few months ago, we attended one of Miles’s choir concerts at the high school. His group performed a piece called “In Meeting, We Are Blessed.” The words convey the power of being with people you love. There’s a hand drum part, and the feeling is upbeat. I don’t believe the song was written to be sad.

So I was surprised to hear sniffling, then the sound of muffled sobs. I looked around to see what was happening. So did most of the people around me. And our eyes finally rested on…Meg Parker.

She was crying so hard, I had to take her to the lobby. Once we got there, the words finally came between her sobs.

“I was listening to the song…and I started to think about how everything is about to change…and my siblings are growing up…and they are all going to be big and leave us…”

Goodness knows how long she had been dwelling on these thoughts in solitude. Finally voicing them was the first step toward starting the conversations Meg needed to have with us. It showed all of us how we could love her best.

I have seen happy tears in response to music in my classroom, as well. Believe it or not, a kindergarten class looked up at me with glistening eyes when I showed them a beautiful picture book with lyrics to What a Wonderful World while we listened to Louis Armstrong sing. None of us ever said a word. We didn’t need to. The art spoke for itself.

Of all the times I have witnessed a child’s spirit responding to the art of a song, my favorite is this:

One day during 2nd grade PE, we listened to J.J. Heller’s cover of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” while we stretched. https://youtu.be/pvQM8cX7d-k I attached it to this post so you can hear how pure and lovely the orchestration is. The music ended, and a student raised his hand.

Darling boy: “Mrs. Parker, can I tell you something?”

Music P.E. Teacher: “Sure, friend. Let’s hear it.”

Darling Boy: “This week, I had soccer practice. And my baby sister started walking out on the field while we were playing. She wanted to play, too.”

Music/P.E. Teacher, informed by years of seemingly random comments like this one: “Hmmm. That must have been something to see. Were you thinking about that while we were listening to the music?”

Darling Boy, eyes shining: “Yes. She’s only one, and it was so cute when she tried to be big like us.”

There’s a wonderful TED talk by Conductor Benjamin Zander in which he discusses the idea of children’s “eyes shining” because of the way we lead them and the experiences we give them.  https://youtu.be/6gt3VdSW5A8 Today I saw those shining eyes as I looked across the crowd of white-haired saints gathered in our church basement.

Shining eyes. That’s the ultimate goal. As it turns out, Meg and I may get to take our show on the road, as several of today’s attendees asked us to consider visiting some local retirement villages.

I may bring the puppets, too. Go big or go home, right?