Sometimes You’ve Just Got to Laugh

I always enjoy hearing stories of other’s experiences … and none have been funnier than those at the expense of the dead. Sounds pretty harsh, right? But it happens. Let me explain.

My dear, dear friend and musical cohort David Loudermilk called me this morning on his way to work. My last blog in which I wrote of playing for the Men’s Bible Class had struck a humorous chord in him and he wanted to share. We all have stories … especially David. He can weave them like nobody’s business, and he always, always, always leaves me laughing. This morning David related how he was playing for a funeral at the First Baptist Church in Perry a number of years ago, and as the grieving family began processing in, he quickly turned to the page in the hymnal: “Like a River Glorious.” It’s a wonderful piece for just such a time. In fact, it’s the processional hymn my sister-in-law chose for her husband and my brother’s funeral service. And, yes, David was at the piano for that one, too. 

Anyway, David told me he turned to the hymn, thinking he knew the page number, and began boldly playing only to realize, much too late, he had turned to the wrong page and was now belting out on the organ, “Set My Soul Afire.” (Oh, my. I just laughed out loud again as I typed that.) Now if you don’t see the humor in that, just think about it a minute. Let it sink it. You will get it. Some faster than others.

I have certainly had my foibles at the keyboard. It wasn’t too long ago that I began the final congregational hymn during a funeral service and realized as I played the introduction that I didn’t have the last page of the song. As one who doesn’t play by ear, I knew that without Divine intervention I was the one sunk. I must admit that I prayed like never before while playing that first page, that I might miraculously develop the “gifting of ear,” but the Lord just didn’t see fit to do that for me that day. So at the end of the first verse and chorus, which I completely and devastatingly and humiliatingly bombed, I held up my “give me just a second” finger to the presiding pastor so I could retrieve the music from the hymnal sitting on the floor to my left. He obviously didn’t know sign language, and as I was bending over, he panicked and quickly said, “Let us pray.” All he knew is that I slumped off the bench. My brother who was in the sound booth in the balcony also thought I had had a stroke and was on his way down before I could raise back up. Yes, I was embarrassed, but when all was said and done, all I could do was laugh about it with my brother and the pastor. However I did gain some wisdom. You can bet I check to make sure I have ALL of my music before I sit down to play.

Every musician has his or her stories. I reminded David this morning of how a husband asked me to play “Send in the Clowns” as his wife was being wheeled out of the church to her final resting place. And I did. Ironically, I played for that husband’s funeral, too, but he had asked me for “How Great Thou Art” for himself. He had always told me that if he didn’t sit up and say, “Amen!” when I concluded that I would know he was for sure dead. I was a little nervous about that one as I just wasn’t real sure as to what to expect when I hit that last note.

But the best story and surely the funniest I have ever heard was from a friend and worship leader named Guy Priest who was to sing for a funeral for a man in his congregation. When he asked the grieving wife what she wanted him to sing, she responded, “Jingle Bells.” 

“Jingle Bells?” he asked.

“Yes, Jingle Bells.”

One more time. “Jingle Bells.”

“Yes, Jingle Bells. It was his favorite song.”

And so Guy prepared “Jingle Bells.” The morning of the funeral he stood before those who had gathered in the sanctuary and in the most funeral-like way, sang a stirring and emotional rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

“Dashing through the snow…

In a once horse opened sleigh…

O’er the fields we go…

Laughing all the way…”

Well by the time he got to the chorus and was crooning, “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…” he noticed that the widow was just weeping. And he thought, “Wow, this is really getting to her.” And so he continued in his soft, soothing voice, “Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse opened sleigh.”

And he quietly sat down.

After the funeral, Guy approached the widow, and with great tears in her eyes, she said, “I didn’t mean ‘Jingle Bells.’ I meant ‘When They Ring Those Golden Bells.’”

Of course, we all laughed hysterically at the story. It just doesn’t get any better … nor worse … than that. Guy proceeded to share that several years later he was telling that story in a church in another state, and a woman came up to him and said, “I just want you to know that I was at that funeral and it was NOT funny.” 

Oh, ma’am. I so disagree. That was hilarious.

Dear readers, there are times when only serious behavior and a respect for the grieving or dying is the only appropriate response or action. But when my brother and later my daddy got toward the end of their lives and things really were hard, my other brothers and I said we were going to laugh when we could. And we did. And we did not and do not apologize for it. Seeing the humor in hard and difficult situations often became our salvation. And we are so grateful.

I believe the gift of laughter, not at the expense of another, but because of the joy that really does abide in us, though so deep and buried at times, is a true gift from our Heavenly Father. There really are funny things that happen at times that the only appropriate response should be to laugh about it. He is a God Who laughs. Why else would He tell us laughter really does a spirit, soul and body good if He didn’t want us to laugh in the places that need medicine? (See Proverbs 17:22.) So when it’s the right thing to do, let’s laugh. Let’s find healing.

If I have been irreverent, then please forgive me. But if I have given you some freedom to laugh, then do it from the belly. And remember to give thanks.

Just an ordinary, grace-filled moment.

Oh, and thanks, David, for the call this morning. You and your antics are always medicine to my soul. Bless you, sweet friend.

To Mr. Francis Nunn: Thank You

As I sit here in front of my screen and keypad, it is an early Sunday morning. Shortly, I will be packing my blue and white bag with music and heading to church where I will find my place sitting on the bench at a beautiful Steinway grand piano that at one time belonged to my mother’s childhood friend, Billie Davis Sexton, and the one on which she practiced as a child. It’s where you will find me most any Sunday morning. And I am grateful. But my story doesn’t begin here.

At the beginning of my third year in grade school, Mom and Dad sent me to Mrs. Jean Gossett out on Lake Joy Road. [I had already taken a year of piano from Mrs. Bedingfield who taught lessons in a little room/closet next to the stage in the Tucker Elementary lunchroom. I would forego recess twice a week and go to her instead.] Mrs. Gossett was a public school teacher who taught lessons in her home in the afternoons. She was also the organist at the Perry Methodist Church, AND she raised German Shepherds of which I was terribly afraid. Beth Davis Roper also took lessons, and because most families only had one car, our mothers would take turns driving us each week. Beth and I would alternately wait while the other took her lesson. Of course, the “waiting” was in the den with multiple German Shepherds staring at me through the sliding glass doors. (Did I mention my fear?) But as far as I knew, my musical abilities really progressed. I was playing Beethoven in no time. 

Mr. Francis Nunn was the beloved music director at the Methodist Church for decades. I still attribute the singing congregation at PUMC to his abilities and leadership so many decades ago. He not only led, he taught us how to love singing and to sing joyfully. I vividly recall how he would stand before the congregation beating the open hymn book with the back of his hand keeping rhythm while we sang. Oh, how that man loved to sing. Mr. Francis was also the song leader for the Men’s Bible Class which was made up of all the elderly men in the congregation. For decades, the class was broadcast live on WPGA, the local radio station. Yes, LIVE. Every Sunday morning at 10:00.

On one of those mornings when I was in the FOURTH grade, Mr. Francis came up to my Sunday School class and said he needed me; they had no pianist that morning. It never dawned on me to tell him no, so off I went to the basement under the sanctuary where the Men’s Bible Class met. However, before making his way to me, Mr. Francis did stop at my daddy’s class to make sure it was okay with him if he asked me. Daddy said yes then ran down to the kitchen in the church fellowship hall and called Mom who was staying home with the twins and told her to turn on the radio because, “Nancy is playing for the Men’s Bible Class!” Then Daddy raced out to his car and turned on his radio so he could listen, while Mom listened from home, to hear his daughter play.

When I got down to the Men’s Bible Class, Mr. Francis asked me to choose the hymns. After all, I was only ten years old. I picked out The Star-Spangled Banner and The Awakening Chorus, the two most difficult songs to sing, and probably play, in the Cokesbury hymnal. Who knew? All I knew is that I loved playing them. He said the National Anthem was a no-go and suggested I select something else, which I did, though we did attempt The Awakening Chorus to everyone’s horror and embarrassment, I’m sure. I was told that Mr. Wendell Whipple who was leading the class on the radio was so disturbed by the whole scenario, he completely ruined the Lord’s Prayer, leaving out entire phrases. And my great-uncle Bernie (Vernon Tuggle), president of the Bank of Perry, who bought me my first piano and who had already suffered one heart attack, was so upset and nervous, he had to pop two nitroglycerin pills.

Me? I was as happy as a lark in a tree on a Spring morning. I had found my niche. My love. Even my calling, so to speak. Mr. Francis began having me accompany the sanctuary choir and even play for church services when needed. And here I am 55 years later, continuing that first call to “come play.” 

I really do love what I get to do, but I still get stunned by it. I tell people all the time I am convinced that somehow God purifies the air waves and changes the notes to something holy. As Johann Sebastian Bach said, “I play the notes as they are written, but it is God who makes the music.” I couldn’t agree more. But I am also so very grateful to be a part of the equation.

But so was Mr. Francis. His life still sings each morning as I play for he is the one who saw me, believed in me, gave me opportunity. So thank you, Mr. Francis. God used you mightily in my life to shape me, to direct me, to stir a passion in me, and to fulfill God’s purpose in me. I will be eternally grateful. And one day, on that Awakening Chorus day, I will tell you so.

Until then, I will keep this before me on the piano each week:

I play my piano with the love of God.

God, be with me now as I call notes into being.

May they make real my work of love.

May they join the work of creation,

Called from nothing,

Uttered over chaos,

Bringing order.

Esther De Waal  (adapted)

Let it be.

Saying “I’m Sorry”

I sat across the desk from a pastor telling him of grievances I had experienced; distress that had come from the hand of people I loved. More specifically: the church. He sat attentively and listened quietly while I spilled both my tears and soul to this one I barely knew. As I settled down and a stillness overtook the room, he leaned forward and out of his mouth came the kindest, most healing and appropriate words he could have uttered. “I am so sorry you have been hurt.”

He knew he couldn’t “fix” anything about the situation and so he didn’t offer a solution. What he gave me, however, was a much larger bestowal. The gift of being seen. 

Isn’t that what we are all looking for? To be seen? To have someone say, “I see you and I am so sorry you have been hurt. Are hurting”? What healing is in those few words. 

In 2006 I read an article in the Houston County Magazine that touched me deeply. It was an interview of a local girl who had made it to the glimmering lights of New York City. Because we went to different schools, I didn’t really know her, although our daddies had worked together, mine often mentioning what a kind man hers was. In the article, she was quoted as remembering the racial stirrings that had happened in our community (and around the nation) when she was in fourth grade, (I was in fifth), and how much it hurt her when the private school was formed and separation of students and friends occurred. Because my daddy was extremely instrumental in the founding of that private school, I knew then I had to contact her. It took me two years to do so, but I finally did. As part of my email I wrote, “I am so sorry that you were hurt by the decision and fears of my parents’ generation.” 

And that’s when I learned the power of saying “I’m sorry.”

A portion of her response I received early the next morning read, “You just left me in tears as I rode to *** Studios. Your words were like nothing I’d ever experienced. While I’ve moved away, emotionally, from that tragic time in southern Georgia, yours is one of the most amazing notes that I’ve ever received. I cannot thank you enough for your gracious, selfless sentiment. … Thank you for your comments from the bottom of my heart.”

Listen, all I said was, “I am so sorry you were hurt.” But those words carried such power. Such force. Such weight. For the first time, after four decades, she felt seen. Maybe even healed. In fact, in 2019, I received yet another note that said, “Your heart felt and unexpected letter still touches me deeply even 10 years later.” 

Powerful, healing words. “I am so sorry you have been hurt.”

Honestly, it doesn’t take much to say those words. The more difficult part is being aware of the person who is hurting or been hurt … of actually looking at someone and seeing pain in their eyes or on their face. Even their body language can be descriptive. For me right now, it’s more about seeing the cashier behind the counter at Publix or the nurse at the pill cart at the nursing home where my mother resides, because that’s where life mostly takes me these days. It’s more about slowing down and truly seeing people. And I do mean a literal slowing down at times. Pacing our walk. Becoming aware of the people around us. 

“I am so sorry you are having to pull such a long shift. I know you are exhausted. But thank you for being here.”

“I am so sorry that customer spoke so shortly to you. But you responded so kindly.”

“You look like there might be something weighing on your mind. I’m sorry.”

“I am so sorry you have been hurt.” 

“I am sorry.”

Powerful, healing words that we all need to hear at one point or another, because, more than anything, they mean we have been seen.

I have a bird print in my home that says, “To be seen is the beginning of love.” Maybe our seeing of that person, our “I’m sorry,” is really a conduit for God’s love to be poured into their hearts and for a healing to begin. I know that’s what happened to me while I sat across that desk. And it’s what happened to my friend in NYC.

Just an ordinary, grace-filled moment.

Thanks be to God.

Beauty on a Backroad

Being married to a forester turned land sales guy for almost 45 years, I have had my share of riding the backroads. It’s one of my favorite pastimes to do with him. And whereas I might be totally lost and wouldn’t be able to find my way home if my life depended on it, he knows the land and roads well. 

Last week provided not one but two opportunities to ride. The first was in a north westerly direction where the roads became hilly and curvy and the dirt red and slippery.  Where every church was named after a nearby creek and had a graveyard tucked up under it. Where signs along the road were ones attached to barns that read something like, “Pop’s Garage,” obviously given to him by a grandchild, or “Do not park in front of this door!” scribbled in huge letters across a large garage door. It was a land where labor is hard and community good. Where country animals and birds like chickens, horses, goats, sheep, pigs (that were NOT for sale according to the sign), cows, and even a miniature Shetland pony abound.

The following day was a morning trip that also led us in a westerly direction where every field was recently harvested cotton, corn or sorghum. And where when farm land stopped, pine trees and hardwoods took their place. When one talks about being in the boondocks, we were there.

There’s not a lot of conversation that goes on. No music or news to interrupt the silence. Just the enjoyment of creation and of being together. But as we crossed the Flint River and were passing the bottom and overflow, I casually said, “If I wanted to kill somebody, this would be a great place to do it.” “Got anybody in mind?” my man asked. “Not at the moment,” I replied. “But, seriously, you could just throw a body down there and the swamp critters could have a feast. No one would ever find it.” I probably watch too much NCIS and other crime shows.

As we continued our journey a little further, he took a couple of more turns taking us even farther from civilization. It was here I said, “You really are taking me out here to leave me, aren’t you?” To which he too quickly replied, “No, there’s the river bottom for that.” 

All that to make the humorous point that we really in the middle of nowhere. It was wild, rural and quiet. But most definitely beautiful. The air was crisp; the temperature never reaching above freezing with the wind making it feel even colder. I made the comment how ponds and lakes look so much more inviting on such days and he explained why. (I’m married to an amazingly smart man.)

But there was one scene that will forever be etched in my mind and retained in my heart.

We turned down a winding dirt road and had been riding some distance when we crested a hill. As we did, there to my right was the most beautiful sight I had seen in a very long time. Cows. The setting couldn’t have been more grandeur. The sky was a cold January blue-blue. The hills before me were more green than they should have been. The pasture that held the cattle was lush. But, oh, the cows. Beautiful. Black. Silky. Even the weather worn wooden feeding troughs and the blue buckets from which some ate only added to the incredible color scheme and breath taking scenery. It was nothing short of heaven for me. 

BEAUTY. That’s my word for 2024. And this particular day I found it in a meadow of grazing cows. I was breathless. Beauty has a way of doing that.

Beauty is also unpredictable. John O’Donohue writes concerning beauty, “… a threshold we had never noticed opens, mystery comes alive around us and we realize how the earth is full of concealed beauty.” Indeed, the majesty of beauty is its gracious wholesomeness, and I experienced nothing less that day. Normally I would have retrieved my phone and tried to capture the moment. But I’m learning that junctures in time such as this cannot be captured. They can only be experienced and savored, because beauty does not linger. It only visits. 

Read that again: Beauty does not linger. It only visits. To have spent my time trying to “capture the moment,” I would have lost the moment. Besides, I do not need a photo on my phone to recall this eternal moment that became mine on that icy cold January morning. It found a place in me that will live on. That’s what beauty does. 

No doubt I received an eternal embrace that morning from the One Who is Beauty Himself … on a dirt road that led to a pasture of grazing cows. Who would have ever thought?

O Worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness… Ps. 96:9

Thanks be to God for this “ordinary moment” on a backroad.

What’s the Saddest Word?

Earlier this week, I sat in a circle with a group of wonderful ladies. To inspire conversation, the question was posed: In your opinion, what is the saddest word in the English language? 

After a moment of reflection, Lacy held up her hand and said, “I have two. ‘Barren’ and ‘goodbye’.” As women, we could relate to both words. After all, Celine Dion has an entire song devoted to the latter word. But barren. It’s most every girl’s dream to produce children. Yet we knew that Lacy’s word went much deeper than that. It was a word that touched each of our souls and fed into the other answers given.

Sally thoughtfully suggested “unfulfilled.”

Betty chimed in with “abandoned … neglected … alone.” 

Clarissa added “hopeless … orphaned” — with a much deeper implication than having no parents. 

I have to admit, to voice such words brought a somberness to the room. A heaviness with which we sat for a time until we were led into a period of sharing the “whys” of our choice of words. No doubt, each answer spoke of life lived. Of experiences each has had over her lifetime.

Oh, there are many “saddest words” in the English language. Just do a quick Google search.

Heartbroken.

Betrayed.

Wistful.

If only.

Unrequited.

Almost.

And if we want to go with a phrase, Google offers those as well.

I don’t value you.

I don’t love you.

Might have been.

We would be remiss not to acknowledge such sad words as war, racism, division, diagnosis, etc. 

And what about Ernest Hemingway’s shortest and saddest six word novel? “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

Talk about some gloomy words and phrases. But they are all common to man, and they all come from a raw place in the soul because, in one way or another, they each come from an experience one has had with life. You have your own. I have mine.

And the Lord’s disciples had theirs. 

“I am going away.” 

For three years these men walked with Jesus in a place of overwhelming connection with God Himself. They had been able to talk with Him, walk with Him, ask Him anything and have Him speak into their very ears and heart, and now He says, “I’m going away.”

Now go back to that list of words and read them from the disciples point of view. 

Barren. 

Goodbye.

Unfulfilled.

Abandoned.

Neglected.

Alone.

Hopeless.

Orphaned.

Heartbroken.

Even betrayed.

Do you think they might have been experiencing any of these “saddest words”? You bet they were. All of their hopes and dreams were crashing down around them: the coming kingdom, God’s righteous rule, of finally being free from the Romans where life would be good. 

I feel sure Jesus knew they wouldn’t understand. It wouldn’t be the first time. But He also knew that His going was necessary because it made a way for a bigger story. A larger outpouring. A more expansive kingdom. 

“Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you, but if I go, I will send Him to you.” John 16:7

Multiple sermons could be preached on that one verse, but let’s just consider this one: What if we were to look at these saddest words as opportunities for a fresh outpouring of God’s Spirit into our own? A place of greater anointing? Of love? Of ministry? What if we allowed His Spirit access to those places of brokenness and hopelessness? That we allowed Him to give us life, fill us with Himself, welcome us into His Fatherly arms?

Life would look different, would it not? These words would look different, because we would see them as opportunities toward life rather than destructive forces that suck the energy right out of us. 

It was quite a list those women gave me. Sad words. Somber words. But we said our goodbyes that evening with the one word on our lips and in our hearts that trumped them all. The life giving word:

Jesus.