Hymns

I’ve mentioned it before. Perhaps more than once.

I even asked my eye surgeon, a few years ago, if the procedure he was about to undertake on my eyes would help alleviate the issue. Alas, he said it wouldn’t, and it didn’t.

The problem is, I cry too easily these days. When family comes to visit. When they leave. When someone cries in a video clip or a movie I’m watching. When friends pass away. When my grandson skins his knee. When the Lovely Lady is in pain.

The list goes on and on. Last Sunday, I even cried when we read the passage in the Bible that would be the speaker’s text for the day.

I don’t even understand that. The passage was Psalm 23—an ubiquitous section of scripture if there has ever been one.

The person who read the day’s scripture asked the gathered folks if we would all read aloud whatever version of the Bible we held—or had memorized. I quoted the King James—just because. It’s what I memorized many passages from in my younger years. I still like it, not because I believe it to be superior to all other English versions (I don’t), but because I love the poetic flow and the old English phrases that stick in the mind long after the reading is done.

I was just fine until we reached verse 6. I had noticed the minor disparity between versions through all of the first five verses, but somehow in that last verse, the differences seemed to disappear. I don’t know if they really did; it just seemed so to me.

My eyes filled with tears, and my voice, usually loud and firm, faded to nothing. Even so, the words echoed in my head.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.” (Psalm 23:6, KJV)

They are echoing still, even as I write the words.

Heaven seems so near. One could almost reach out and touch it.

I’ve been working on a song for piano for the last couple of weeks. It’s not getting that much better as far as the technical details—including too many sixteenth notes and more than a few tricky chords—go. But there are pictures in my head as I play it that go right along with that last verse of the ubiquitous Psalm we read.

It seems like I haven’t heard the story since my Sunday School days in that little red brick church in McAllen, Texas, sixty years ago. My mind probably forgets recent mentions of the story. It does that these days. I remember events that occurred in childhood better than those that transpired ten years ago.

You remember the story of what we call Jacob’s Ladder. It’s found in Genesis 28. You should read it for yourself. Later. Stick with me for now—okay?

Jacob was running from his brother Esau, whom he had tricked out of his birthright. But he was exhausted, so he found a place off the beaten path and, taking a large stone for a pillow, fell asleep. It wasn’t to be a dreamless sleep.

In his dream, he saw stairs coming down to earth from heaven, with angels making the trip back and forth. God stood at the top, in heaven, and He stated again to Jacob the promises He had made to Jacob’s grandfather, Abraham.

When Jacob awoke, he realized that he had chosen a holy place to lay his head upon that stone, so he set the stone upright there, and consecrated it as an altar, giving the place a new name.

Beth-el.

It means the House of the LORD.

I want to write the word David used often in the Psalms when he thought his readers needed to stop and let a thought sink in. So I shall.

Selah.

People speak of “thin places” in the world, meaning places where God seems especially near to us. I can’t think of a thinner place than this Beth-el.

The House of the Lord. The place where the bridge (or stairs) stands between earth and heaven.

There is a good bit of doctrine that wants to be examined and discussed here. I shall studiously avoid doing that. Many others have covered the subject before me.

But I’d love it if you, should you choose to listen to the piano piece linked below, would think about its lyrics, and consider the One who actually is our bridge to heaven and eternal life with God.

He said the words Himself;

“I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No man comes to the Father, but by me.” (John 14:6)

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord.

Forever.

Even if your eyes—like mine—are defective and the tears flow. There will come a day when He Himself will wipe them all away.

In the House of the Lord.

“Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me.
Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
Darkness be over me, my rest a stone,
Yet in my dreams I’d be, nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

There let the way appear, steps unto heav’n;
All that thou sendest me, in mercy giv’n;
Angels to beckon me, nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

(Nearer My God to Thee, words by Sarah Flower Adams, 1841)

It was a fifth Sunday this week. An event that happens 4 times a year. My church used to have a dinner every time the day rolled around. Nowadays, we get together to sing on the fifth Sundays. Songs by Request, we call it.

The Lovely Lady plays the piano. I usually get roped into leading the singing. Folks in the audience yell out hymn numbers (yes, we pull out the old hymnbooks for the event) and we sing a couple of verses from each request.

Arriving early on Sunday evening, we noticed a microphone on a regular stand near the center of the stage. Knowing that a boom stand would work better to get the microphone close to me, I went looking and found one in the back of the equipment room.

It wasn’t until the end of the first song that I noticed the problem. It might have been the reason the stand was stowed where it had been in the little room off the stage.

As we sang, the weight of the microphone pushed the end of the boom down toward the music stand that held my hymnbook. I pulled it back into position, tightening the adjustment knob to hold it there.

We sang another song. By the end of a couple more verses, the mic was right back where it had been. You understand, don’t you, that a mic has to be close to one’s mouth to be effective at all?

Repeating the process, we soldiered on. But, after another two verses, it was clear the boom stand wasn’t up to the job. Begging the pardon of the waiting audience, I went in search of the original stand. They of course had been entertained by the extracurricular activities, so there was a fair amount of laughter from their seats in the interim.

Amid the laughter, I heard a voice from someone suggesting I prop up the end of the boom with the regular stand. I thought about that for about two seconds and rejected the idea, instead trading out one stand for the other.

I’ve mentioned before that I like things to be orderly, haven’t I? I sort my potato chips into stacks of broken and whole—my M&Ms by color. Don’t tell the Lovely Lady, but I even like my blue jeans hung up by the degree of fading (when they’re not sorted by waist size, that is).

It would be messy to have a regular mic stand sitting under the business end of a boom stand propping it up. I wouldn’t like the optics.

So, I set the microphone atop the regular stand and disposed of the boom behind me, forgetting that the mic wouldn’t be close to my mouth unless I leaned in next to it. Even with it sitting beside my hymnal, instead of behind it, I’d have to adjust my stance to get the sensitivity necessary for clear sound to reach the audience.

For the rest of the hour, I repeated hymn numbers over and over as folks would say, “What number again?” When I asked the fellow with whom I had arranged beforehand to pray a closing prayer, another man nearby touched his chest and mouthed, “Who, me?” because he couldn’t hear me clearly.

Because I wanted to keep things neat, folks were inconvenienced. Perhaps, even embarrassed.

But, there was no mess on the stage!

I know, if you ask any of the good folks who attended, none would remember either the mess or lack thereof. They probably weren’t even annoyed much by the need for me to repeat myself. I may be the only one having any second thoughts about my choices that night.

But, I want to remember.

I want to remember that life is messy. Our interactions with strangers can be awkward. Our exchanges with family members are often without tact and require apologies afterward. We don’t always fit together without fidgeting and rubbing off some rough corners.

I want to remember that sometimes you leave the errant green bean, that somehow escaped from someone’s plate and onto the floor, to be cleaned up later. The joyous cacophony around the dinner table won’t be flawed at all because of a little mess underneath it.

I want to remember that sometimes the notes don’t come out perfectly and my voice cracks when I sing the high ones. And, once in a while, the Lovely Lady plays a natural when it should have been a flat. And, we don’t stop and correct it, because the music is beautiful despite the mess.

Beautiful and messy.

And, that’s all of life, isn’t it? A glorious mess.

Still. I think I’ll check out the mic stand before the next hymn night. It never hurts to plan ahead.

“Life is a journey that must be traveled, no matter how bad the roads and accommodations.” (Oliver Goldsmith, Irish novelist/poet)

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.” (1 Peter 4:8-9, NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

These Eyes Must Be Defective

Messy, Isn’t It?