Jingle Bells - June 7, 2010

Bob works as a pediatric nurse with terminally ill children. One of his "patients," is a little girl named Emily. Emily loved playing with Bob when he visited her room. She felt safe and they become fast friends. Occasionally, Emily would talk about the time when "Chucky Lee" was "going to come." Bob assumed she was speaking of a friend, or family member. So one day he asked her.

Emily told Bob, "Chucky Lee comes to see me sometimes." And then paused and added, "Chucky Lee is death. Someday Chucky Lee will come and take me away."
Bob knew that Emily needed to personify death into a character she could understand. It made perfect sense.
"Are you frightened?" he asked.
"Yes, very much. Mostly he comes at night."

Bob was moved by her clarity and innocence. And he wanted to protect her, to shield her from such sorrow. "At night, when you feel Chucky Lee coming, is there anything you can do to feel better?"
"Oh, yes," Emily replied brightly, "You have to sing Jingle Bells and other love songs!"
After that Bob asked specifically about her nights.
"Well," she told him, using a conspiratorial whisper, "Last night, I had to sing Jingle Bells three times, very, very loud."

Indeed Emily. Very, very loud. . .

We can all learn from Emily.
Oh. . .how we wish for a life exempt from the visits of Chucky Lee. Whether it is heartache, sorrow, fragility, vulnerability, breakability, weakness or disillusionment - each of them, in their own way, a small death.

I talked to a friend this week. As paramedics worked over the body of a young man dying from an overdose, she held the young man's 21 year-old friend tightly, as he sobbed in her arms, hyperventilating. She didn't know quite what to say, but whispered over and over, "breathe with me, breathe in the spirit, and breathe out the junk." She told me, "I cleaned up the blood stained carpet left by the paramedics. It was my prayer of servitude I guess. It is an unusual feeling, cleaning up the blood of someone who is dying, but there is a profound sense of devotion to what is sacred here. It's not just about the bloody and messy, but about the fragility of life, and how life doesn't unfold neatly and how I have so much to learn in trusting that truth."

So.
What sustains you?
What keeps you going?

Here's the deal:
Sometimes we need to hold someone tight, even if we don't know what to say.
Sometimes we need to let ourselves be held tightly, even if we don't believe what is whispered in our ear.
Sometimes we need to walk the dog, or fill the bird-feeders, or talk with a friend.
Sometimes we must spend an afternoon in a garden, fighting blackberry brambles.
Sometimes we must be very still, for an afternoon, and use our stillness as a prayer, a silent song to the heavens.
And sometimes, we need to sing Jingle Bells and other love songs very, very loud.

Not that music always has its intended result. The other day Zach and I are tooling down a Vashon country road, Matisyahu's One Day blasting (what is heartfelt music, if not loud?), and me singing along with unabashed gusto.
"Dad," Zach says, "Shhhh. You know these feel good songs, the ones where you can almost taste the sadness? Well, the way I listen to them is to become like an Indian doing mediation. And Dad, when you sing along, you mess up my mantra."
Ohhhh. Okay. Thank you son. I know I can't carry a tune. I just never knew I could mess up someone's manta.

I do know what he means though. About the almost taste the sadness part. Music has a power that enables it to find its way into the crevices of our soul.

Pete Seeger believed in the power of music. It was his "weapon," and he sang and lived his life in support of peace, and of international disarmament, and of civil rights, and of environmental causes. And he paid a price for his beliefs, and for his music. In protesting war, members of his singing group, The Weavers, were blacklisted during the McCarthy Era. In The Power of Song, the documentary about Seeger's life, he talks openly about death threats he received. One man in particular, followed Seeger's concerts, making his intentions clear. Pete's wife Toshi finally suggested that Pete simply talk with the man. On one occasion, before a concert, back stage, the stalker and Pete spent time in a room alone.
"What happened?" Seeger was asked.
"Well, we talked. And then we sang together. . .'Where have all the flowers gone?' And then we cried together. And then the man told me, 'Thank you. I now feel clean.'"

I get too easily cynical. And I will admit that some part of me doesn't want to believe stories that have peaceful endings.

But in my heart I know that only light can push the darkness away.

Light. And very, very loud renditions of love songs.

Note: The Chucky Lee story is adapted from Wayne Muller's book, How then shall we live?