Earlier this year, I began (and then grew distracted [oh, look! A cute little bunny!] so I set it aside on my kitchen table, where it still awaits my return) reading Bob Hudson’s The Art of the Almost Said. One of the first questions he poses, which I’ve been contemplating all summer as I chase (actually, as I feed) bunnies in our back yard, is how you first became aware of poetry or verse.
It’s not a difficult question for me, but it is layered like a too-tiered wedding cake about to tumble off its base.
The easy, ‘just the facts, ma’am’ answer is this: My mother.
Mom filled our home and our lives with music, with worship, and with church. We existed in a world of sound and rhythm, and that foundation is apparent in each of my siblings’ lives.
Recently, one of my mom’s dearest friends passed away. I’ve been trying to remember when and how my parents met Jim and Wilma. Perhaps one of my older siblings remembers, but it seems to me that they had already established their friendship prior to our time in Munising.
We certainly knew them well when we moved to Marquette in 1984.
And Marquette is where Mom and Wilma imprinted a love of worship and song on my heart without even knowing it. Without trying. Without preaching.
Wilma would visit, and as I recall, we all wanted her attention. She gave it freely. Mom did everything in her power to make the occasions special. Though we didn’t have much, Mom always served a meal when Wilma visited. And then, after bellies were full, Mom would send us kids to bed so she and Wilma could have what they called ‘prayer time’ together.
I know what you’re thinking. Prayer? How on earth is that enticing to a little girl? But look, I knew. Mom’s twelve-string was out and she had tuned it prior to Wilma’s arrival. The blue notebook folder full of praise choruses and chords was removed from wherever Mom kept it and lay conspicuously on the table with her Bible. And Wilma? She showed up with her guitar case in hand. I was no Einstein, but I knew that ‘prayer time’ actually meant ‘prayer, Bible reading, and worship time’.
You have to understand that I was a good kid – not out of goodness in myself, but honestly, out of fear and timidity. I did stupid things for sure; but when questioned, I’d basically crack like a forty-five-year-old lumbar vertebra (seriously, y’all… the things that change in your forties). I had five older siblings, so I often preferred to just get lost in the shuffle of things. But on these Wilma visits, I was a rebel. I was flat-out disobedient. Mom had sent me to bed; I had snuck back down the staircase, plopped my pajama bottom on the second-to-last step, leaned my head against the stairwell wall that hid me from Mom’s view in the living room, and listened as two less-than-professionally-trained guitar players sang simple songs of praise to God.
Here’s one of my favorite modern renditions of one of those songs Mom and Wilma used to sing:
Years later, when I told Mom how formative this staircase eavesdropping was for me, she acted surprised – as if she’d had no idea I’d done it all throughout our time on Ridge Street. Still, when I look back, I just don’t ever remember going back up to my bedroom. I suspect, in retrospect, that I often fell asleep on the stairs, and Mom returned me to my quarters without reprimand.
I cannot think of another thing in my life that has been so formative for me as a Christian, as a musician, or as a poet. I often look back on those moments, wondering what songs Mom and Wilma would be singing today; what prayers they’d be praying; what passages of Scripture they’d be reading.
And therefore, the not-so-simple, ‘tell me the story, ma’am’ answer is: The stairwell on the other side of the living room in our house on Ridge Street – that is where I first became aware of poetry and verse.
From my heart to yours,
What a great story!
Thanks, Coach!