Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

connection

Finding the tune

It had been two months since I played my guitar. (You might remember that it had once been YEARS since I picked it up. That was in the fall and I started playing in public--on Sunday mornings in church, no less. It still feels weird to write that and say it.)

Photo by Ian Tormo on Unsplash

It’s a truth about me that if I don’t have a deadline or a scheduled reason, then some things just don’t happen. So with Christmas and our worship leader on break and then some health concerns in our family, there was no scheduled time for me to play and in my mind, no urgent need to practice. It wasn’t until earlier this month when I found myself back on the worship team schedule that I made myself start practicing again.

As I started practicing again, my fingers told me I should change my thinking. Typing hurt because any callouses I had built up in the fall from playing guitar were gone and my tender fingertips pressed the guitar strings two nights in a row. I was frantically practicing the songs I was scheduled to play the following weekend.

I am no gifted musician, just someone who learned how to play but can’t read music and can’t play bar chords because of my short fingers. I’m constantly googling how to play certain chords “easy” or what I can substitute. I know nothing about music theory so I use a chart I also found online to help me cheat my way to the right key.

I suspect that this is sort of normal for those who play guitar. I don’t think it’s a secret and even though these things sometimes make me feel like an imposter, I don’t think anyone who is singing along on Sundays would notice my methods. (One of my fears is that I sound screechingly horrible when I play. I think I would notice if that was the case, but honestly, when I’m playing, I can’t really hear how my instrument sounds. Maybe that’s a good thing?)

I was struggling with two songs that are songs I love and wanted to play but were proving a bit of a challenge for me. The first night I dragged my guitar to the living room to practice, I cringed the whole time, wondering why I had ever thought it was a good idea to play guitar for people (and okay, yes, for God). I pulled up music videos for the songs in question and tried to play along, but it wasn’t syncing like I would have hoped. I play be ear, which sounds impressive but really just means that I know how things are supposed to sound by listening not by looking at the chords or the notes and when it doesn’t sound “right” I get frustrated because I’m not sure what to do.

The second night of practice I was beating myself up again for being inadequate and lacking talent. I mean when you’re listening to Chris Tomlin and Matt Redman play and sing the songs you’re struggling with, that’s an easy thing to do. I’m not either of those guys nor is that my aim. I spent most of one day humming the tune of one of the songs in my head (and sometimes out loud) just to get familiar with it.

And then something clicked. I could hear it and I could play it. This synchronizing was a magical moment because then I began to believe that I could actually play the songs the way they were meant to be sung.

—

I’ve already established that I’m not a musician, per se, but I do love music and I think there are some important metaphors related to music that those of us who are not musicians can apply to our lives.

For example, I think there’s a soundtrack that accompanies us throughout our days. It might be a laugh track like from the “old days” of comedy shows. Maybe it’s more like a record scratching or skipping. Maybe there’s one note you can pick out and it reminds you of something familiar. Maybe it’ s a lullaby and it soothes you. Maybe it’s the kind of song that makes you dance.

I’m not talking about a literal song, although there are plenty of those. I’m still trying to grasp this idea myself. It’s one of those things I know when I see it or experience it. So, let me see if I can explain.

Some tasks are drudgery. I do not thrill at the prospect of laundry (I folded five loads one night recently. Ew.) or dishes or cleaning the bathroom. I do these things, not always as often as I should, because they need to be done. Like paying bills. They are part of the price of living. But I have to sometimes pump myself up to do them. Sometimes I play music to motivate my work. The peppier the better.

But there are other things I do that I could do even if I had little to no energy. Reading, for example. Almost always if I pick up a book, I can become more energized for the other parts of my life. Writing is another one of these things, once I actually convince myself to start.

These things are so ingrained in who I am that I don’t feel like I need to “listen” for the tune. They are soul songs I know so well that I can play them by heart.

But sometimes I have to listen more carefully for the tune that makes my heart sing. Lately, I’ve been finding it more often in connection. 

I have always felt a little bit like a bridge that brings people together. I think this is part of my personality makeup (Enneagram 9 stuff, if you’re into that), but I haven’t always known this about myself. But it’s become more apparent.

Let me tell you about a recent experience. Some of our students are learning about careers for a project, and one of our students had an interest in an area that one of my family members worked in. We were able to arrange a phone call, and I was so thrilled to see the student’s face almost literally light up when a connection was made between things they like to do and things my family member likes to do. It was confirmation that the student’s interest in this field was not only valid but quite possibly the THING they were meant to do with their life.

Photo by bruce mars on Unsplash

I don’t always leave work feeling like I could dance or skip but that day I did. I had found the tune of my heart, part of the song I was meant to sing with my life, and it was almost intoxicating.

I feel this, too, when I’m helping people tell their stories because I’m connecting them with readers. Sometimes when I end a client phone call, I have to get up and walk around or do something physical like folding laundry or washing dishes because I have so much adrenaline. (I’m not a thrill seeker at all. Not in the traditional sense. I get my thrills from meaningful work and authentic interaction. I don’t know if that makes me weird or just me.)

Maybe that’s what thrills me about writing and reading, too. A connection with a character or a reader or with my thoughts to the rest of life. 

—

Sometimes it’s hard to hear the song you were meant to sing because of static or noise or being too far from the source to get a good signal.

I know this all too well. The noise of daily life–the drudgery of the things we don’t like to do–can drown out the soul song. Distance from the Source of life can cause me to tune in to other songs that are not mine to sing. This is when I start to criticize my abilities or efforts or when I look at what others can do and wish that I could do that, too.

Photo by Mohammad Metri on Unsplash

Static, though. Interference. This is a big one. Stress. Trauma. Painful experiences. A history of talking badly about yourself or believing lies told you by someone you trusted. These can make the soul song almost impossible to hear.

I don’t know the path for you, but counseling was the path for me. After a long and sometimes painful process, I was able to tune down the static and begin to hear the tune of something lighter and freer. Even then, in those first days of hearing it, my steps were tentative and my “dancing” was mostly internal. But the more I heard the song, the harder it was to resist.

Do you know those songs that make you tap your foot almost without thinking? The ones that make you want to shake your booty even if you’re pushing a shopping cart through the grocery store? That’s what this soul song is like for me. I can’t help myself when I hear it. I talk faster and my eyes widen and sometimes I’m practically shouting my enthusiasm. Occasionally I will forget that I’m even talking to anyone else about this, and sometimes my husband will tell me how attractive I am in these moments. I assume it’s because I am so fully alive and free. Maybe I should ask him.

That’s the power of the soul song.

But only you can hear it. Only you know what the tune sounds like for you. If I could wish anything for anyone it would be to have the chance to clear the distractions and the static and the noise, to do the hard work to listen for the soul song and then dance.

To be fully alive is my goal these days, and I don’t always meet that goal, but I know now that it’s the only thing I really want. Does that mean my life is free of drudgery? No. But it does make the ordinary days more than bearable.

One day, I am practically flying when I leave work and the next I am grumbling at having to shovel snow from my driveway at 7 in the morning. But I will keep listening for the song and go where it leads me.

—

Would it surprise anyone to learn that it’s easier to hear the tune in a group? I had almost no problems following along when it came time to practice with the worship team.

It can be that way with our soul songs, too. I have been most in tune with the song of my heart when I have found others who are living their soul songs out loud. I have found it with the caseworkers tirelessly advocating for refugees. With the teachers who give middle school students everything they have every day. With friends who are passionately pursuing their purpose, even when it costs them (money, time, family).

I should mention that sometimes I didn’t know what I was passionate about until I saw other people living their passions. If you’re reading this and thinking you have no idea what your soul song even sounds like, maybe you just need to hang out or observe people who do. Soul songs recognize each other, I think, and stir when they hear each other.

Listen for the tune. Remove the noise. Dance to your song.

Why I want to hold your hand

The day was warm and sunny, unusually so for the season we were in. On a whim, we decided to go to the park. My husband dropped us off on his way to work, so we would only have to walk one way and be home in time to meet the bus.crane

My son played on the playground equipment, and some sort of water bird glided over our heads and landed in the shade of a weeping willow tree.

The sun in its warmth, the light breeze in its refreshing, the bird in its beauty–all remarkable. But what I remember most about that day is holding hands.

—

Our son is almost 4. When our daughter the kindergartener was this age, she began asserting her independence. She was ready to be in school years before her age allowed her, and I clearly remember the “I don’t need your help” battles. It was a confusing time for me, as a stay-at-home mom who sometimes wished she wasn’t. It is good, I would tell myself, that she doesn’t need me so much. But if she didn’t need me anymore, then what would my purpose be?

Fortunately, our son, the baby of the family, is spoiled by his mother who now has him most days all day by himself. Even when I’m tired and frustrated by his needs, I still say “yes” because some days I’m still not ready. The transition to stay-at-home motherhood was a long, tough battle for me, and the transition to kids-in-school-now-what-do-I-do is approaching.

And I find myself filled with expectation and dread.

It’s a dichotomy I can’t reconcile–wanting to be needed and wishing I wasn’t needed so much.

—

“I don’t need you hand.”

We walked into the school for kindergarten orientation and these were my daughter’s words as I reached for her. No, I thought. I suppose you don’t. But maybe, just maybe, I need yours.

—

“I need your hand.”

These are the words I hear most often from him. At times, they are part of a dramatic meltdown that only a gesture of hand-holding can solve. This day, it was a sincere request as we made our way home.

We walked home from the park that warm autumn day on tired legs. For all the energy he exudes, my son was dragging. It is no short walk. Manageable for a relatively healthy adult. Exhausting for preschool legs.

I am not a dawdler when it comes to walking. If there is a destination, I walk with purpose, closing the distance between here and there as quickly as possible. Some days I notice it. Most days, it’s just habit.

We left the park in plenty of time to be home for the bus’ arrival from school, yet I still felt myself wanting to hurry.

His hand in mine, we were forced to walk at his pace, much slower than my anxious hurry preferred. We took it slow. We stopped to rest when his legs needed a break. And each time we started walking again, his hand found mine.

—

“We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand …”

It was a recent Sunday that we’d sang the words to this neglected hymn in church. I remember in years past singing this song and actually holding hands during the singing. It is strange, at first, to hold hands with the people who sit in the pews near you. People who aren’t your relatives or spouse or children.

But it is an act of connection. A fleshly reminder of the humanity that surrounds you.

Holding hands while praying was something I often dreaded in my early Christian days. It felt intimate, even without fingers laced, and I was always self-consciously aware of whose hand I would be holding, like it was a proposal of marriage or something.

What I remember about those days is what I learned when I held someone’s hand. There were cold hands needing warmed. Rough hands reflecting a hard day of work. Dry hands in need of lotion. (Mine almost always are.) Sweaty hands in need of reassurance. Small hands needing a delicate touch. Large hands exuding strength.

No matter what the hand was like, there was a person connected to it, and eventually the hand holding became a normal part of our gathering.

—

My husband and I held hands a lot in our dating years and the first year of marriage. Then babies, diaper bags and children filled our hands and we slowly drifted from the practice.

As our kids get older, they like to hold hands with each other, and my husband and I are rediscovering the art of hand holding. One of the sweetest things I witness is an older couple, hands wrinkled, aged and still joined. I want to walk through these years of marriage still holding hands with the one I love.

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—

When I hold my son’s hand, I am reminded to slow down.

When I hold my husband’s hand, I remember we are in this together.

When I hold my daughter’s hand, I remember that holding hands isn’t always about needing to; sometimes it’s about wanting to.

As a follow of Jesus, I want to hold the hands of my brothers and sisters when they’re weary, walking in step with them, not dragging them along to the next stop on the journey. I want to reach out and squeeze their hands to remind them we’re in this together. I want to offer my hand, not in a handshake as if we were doing business, but as one human connecting with another without words.

—

I will think of these things when we’re together and my insecurity will tell me I shouldn’t because maybe it’s too much touching. For whatever reason, there are some of us (I am one of them) who bristle at the touch of others. Maybe we’re fragile and fear that a touch will break us. Maybe we’ve been touched unkindly one too many times. Or maybe we’ve lacked touch and don’t even know that we’re missing it.

I’m slowly recovering my need for human contact.

My attempts will be hesitant at first. A pat on the shoulder. An uninvited hug. A squeeze of the hand.

Just know that what I really want to do is hold your hand.