9/12/07:
"Bearing Belief" - by Sarah Griffiths
Perhaps you have a song or a piece of music that moves you, takes on such meaning, that listening to it or performing it is nothing short of a spiritual experience--a sort of prayer. For me, it’s that song, “People Get Ready.” While it’s been recorded by numerous artists, the version that stirs me is the one performed by Aretha Franklin. I don't remember when I first heard it and I’m not entirely sure why I find it so compelling, but it was part of the soundtrack of my childhood as I shared a lively home with 11 older sisters and brothers whose favorite music blared continuously from a crowded upstairs. In 1968, the year I was born, a young Aretha Franklin released "Lady Soul," a record that included "People Get Ready.” I can still remember the album being around the house, part of my older sister’s collection.
When I became reacquainted with the music of this era as an adult, including “Lady Soul,” I learned that singer/songwriter Curtis Mayfield wrote “People Get Ready” in response to the 1963 March on Washington, where the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. It has been said that the song speaks to a faith that bridges all divides and welcomes everyone, and expresses Mayfield's fundamental belief in the righteousness of the struggle for equality.
In 1860 Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his Conduct of Life that we “are born believing,” that each of us “bears beliefs, as a tree bears apples.” One hundred years later, at the height of the Civil Rights Movement, Curtis Mayfield bore his core belief in a song that would become an enduring classic. Today we come together to reflect on what we bear as belief in our lives, and on what we can learn when we share our expressions of belief.
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Devoted and occasional listeners of National Public Radio are likely familiar with the series, “This I Believe.” The program was introduced to the American public in 1951 by journalist Edward R. Murrow and was returned to radio in recent years by NPR. “This I Believe” features ordinary citizens and prominent Americans reading brief essays in which they share their personal philosophies--the principles or core beliefs that shape their lives. Airing Monday mornings, “This I Believe” segments have been in the background for me as I’ve readied my children for the day, poured a first cup of coffee, or driven to work, and I have on these occasions been enriched, challenged, and sometimes amused. “This I Believe” inspires our Common Prayer today.
I believe in connections. The sort of connection that ties me to a 96 year-old woman whose home I now call my own. Three years ago my husband and I bought a house whose previous owner had made it her home for over 60 years. She and her husband raised 12 children there. I was one of 12 children. Even the realtor said she was one of 12 children. It seemed meant to be. From the start, I felt humbled by the home’s history and connected to the woman who was at its center.
I was aware that the woman whose home this had been now lived in a nursing home at the end of the block. On a beautiful fall day after we moved in to the house, I sat with some of my family, including my mom, in our sunroom. I was expecting my second child any day. As I looked out the window, I noticed an elderly woman being pushed in a wheelchair up the neighbor’s driveway. It had to be the previous owner and one of her children. I ran outside—as swiftly as someone over 9 months pregnant can run. I felt drawn to this woman. I felt I needed to meet her, that she and my mom, this matriarch of my big family, should meet. I hoped to hear from this woman about the house. She and her daughter warmly obliged with a handful of stories, the sort that sound familiar to people from large families. I wanted to assure the woman we would do right by this house and respect the decades of family life wrapped up in it. The woman was pleased to see there would be children about the place and I told her how my husband and I looked forward to raising them there. We joked about how the house wouldn’t be seeing 12 children this time around. This would be one of several such encounters over the next few years, as the woman’s sons and daughters would push their aging mom down the street to see her old house.
Meanwhile, through neighbors and mutual acquaintances, I heard more about this woman, her family, her many community contributions. She sounded interesting. And funny. This was consistent with the twinkle I had noticed in her eye. She sounded well educated, especially for her generation. Her support of the local arts and education was legendary, including here at St. Norbert. She sounded committed and compassionate, an advocate for children and the poor. Someone remarked to me once that she wasn’t always very fussy about keeping house, which made me smile.
The woman and her children came by the house occasionally, never knocking on our door or expecting to visit—just wanting to be near the house and remember. I was always glad if I happened to see them so my husband, our boys, and I could offer them a welcome. I thought it must have seemed strange for this woman, even painful at times, and I wondered how my mom might feel if our family home were to become someone else’s. On one visit, her body and speech noticeably altered by a recent stroke, the woman verbalized little but expressed much when she said, “I miss this place.”
Two Sundays ago, I noticed the woman and some of her family on the sidewalk. As I greeted them, a daughter said the woman’s health had declined and that they had brought in Hospice to the nursing home. I knelt down to say hello to the woman, and touched her arm as I always did. The family said they were hoping to have a photo in front of the house. I felt relieved to be there to take the photo so they could all be in it. I took a few so one was sure to turn out: the woman in her wheelchair, wearing a cap that said, “Life is Good,” flanked by her loving family in front of their old house. A few days later, she died.
I believe in connections like the one between this woman and me. They matter to me, not in the same way that bonds with family and friends matter, but I find meaning in them. I believe I learned to value connection from my mom—a woman who, with my dad, lovingly and unselfishly raised a big family and held it together; a woman who, rather than avoiding an old acquaintance in the store so she wouldn’t have to make small talk, would go out of her way to reconnect; a woman who would always go to the funeral; a woman who taught me by example to care about and do for people in need. When I’m mindful of connection, almost everything else seems to take care of itself. I don’t want to sound naïve or simplistic; I know life is messy, human relationships complex. But when I fail to be mindful of connection, I know I’m not being the person I’m called to be. For me, out of an appreciation of connections between and among people, much else flows: empathy, generosity, respect, love, investment in others’ life stories, a sense of justice, and faith that when we open ourselves to one another, we find God.
