Directed by the quiet girl at the
front desk I made my way down the sterile hallway, past the residents’ rooms
and the beauty parlor, and turned right at the activity room. I plunked my gig bag on the counter next to the
popcorn maker and while I unzipped it I was greeted by the activities director, a
pleasant and caring gal whose name, I am sorry to admit, I could not remember two
minutes after she told me. I lifted my instrument from its case and unrolled my
beaded guitar strap, instinctively threading the pegs through the strap holes
and binding my guitar to my body like she was a natural born appendage.
Clicking the code on my iPhone I chose my guitar tuner app and turned the tuning
pegs, compelling the tones of the strings to align themselves. As I did this, various aides were
wheeling the audience into the activities center, so that by the time I started singing
there were maybe four dozen beautiful eyes set on me. Four dozen eyes, and four dozen lovely
wrinkled hands, and a few less than two dozen heads of snowy white hair, the
rest of them having lost their covering altogether or having visited the beauty
parlor and a bottle of dye.
“Hi. My name is Cori and I have come today as part
of Heart and Soul. We want to bring good
music to you, so is it OK if I sing for you?”
Usually they’ll answer yes,
though there is always someone in every group who grumbles something that looks
like it might be no.
At least twice a month I visit
various nursing homes, rehab centers, schools or hospital units on assignment
with a non-profit organization called Heart and Soul. I’ve been doing this for years, and I have done
well over 100 shows for them. Their objective is to take quality music to people who
are not able to get out to it. Often the people I sing to do not understand the
words I am singing, either because their ears don’t work like they used to, or
their brains don’t work like they used to. It’s fine either way, because music is a
universal language, and so is presence.
I have had to reschedule twice in
the recent past, and so today, when I woke again with a wet pillow and achy
body, I forced myself to rise and dress despite my condition. My throat is not sick. I’m certain it is an
internal infection and not anything contagious.
Standing there, before the rows
of well blessed wheelchairs, I began. My left hand found the position of a C
chord on the neck of the guitar, and my right hand plucked in 4/4 time. The words of an old love song, one of my
mother’s favorites, fell from my lips:
See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise from a tropic isleJust remember darlin’ all the while
You belong to me….
I sing so often the words come
naturally, like breath. I offered a combination of tunes, some sacred, some old
time romantic, and some original. Every
one of those songs I sang today were sung at my mother’s bedside in the waning
days of her life. I always see my mom when I give Heart and Soul service. I caressed the notes, gazing at the hands of
those lovely aged bodies, looking into their cloudy sparkly eyes, at their legs
and slippered feet cradled by their trusted wheelchairs. They smiled, some of
them, because they are gracious and wanted me to feel appreciated. I see my mom in that. I stood before them, my
hair all disheveled with the evidence of riding the roller coaster of chills
and sweats. I wiped my brow, walking the
thin tightrope of thinking of Mom and thinking of Mom too much so that I can’t
function, and I begin anew:
Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds thy hands have madeI see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
Thy power throughout the universe displayed
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to thee
How Great Thou art….
In the back of the room a tall
slender gentleman sang along. Every word
of every verse. The tiny Hispanic woman with the never ending smile over by the
door closed her eyes and rocked back and forth.
The Native American fellow on the front row, just in front of me, tapped
his cane in time. He is blind and I
imagine the pictures the lyrics paint for him. Because I know these songs so
well I can perform and carry another whole train of thought at the same
time. I am blessed by this, because I
can witness the results of my ministry immediately. And I can, and do, offer up
silent prayers for each individual in that room as my eyes fasten on them. I
acknowledge this as a tender mercy gift from the Lord. I know they are not all
believers, but I hope they don’t mind good thoughts about them rising
heavenward.
I am touched, always, by the
tender care I see staff give to those in their stewardship. The girl whose name I cannot remember noticed
a younger woman who seemed agitated. She
quietly slipped over toward her, pulled her wheelchair back out of the group
and tucked her in next to where she was sitting, patting her jittery hand and
looking her in the eye with great affection. I scanned the room as I sang,
pondering the stories behind those aged bodies.
These were the people who paved the highways we drive on today. They led Brownie troops and Boy Scout troops
and taught restless children in summertime Bible School. They fought in wars
and supported fighters in wars and peacefully resisted wars. They dropped their
hard earned money in the Salvation Army buckets at Christmastime. They made mistakes and we learned from their
mistakes, and they did much good and we grew from the good. And now they are
old. They have earned old, it did not just fall upon them.
By the time I finished my
performance today my hair had dried, and my fever was gone, and I felt much
better. I think I needed a dose of
geriatrics. I am quite sure of it, actually. I receive far more than I could ever give. My
body speaks, in a setting like this, that universal language of music and
presence. But it hears the universal
language of love.
For more information about Heart & Soul click HERE.
Thank you for this loving service you give. Both the music to Heart and Soul and you lent writing to us.
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