Wednesday afternoons, back there in the woody hillside autumn days of my Pennsylvania childhood, we scurried through the fallen leaves, home from school.
Mom loaded us into the car, or Ag Payne honked her horn from the driveway to pick us up, and we travelled up and down Old Clairton Road to our yellow brick church. There we joined other Latter-day Saint children in an hour of music and gospel lessons, known as Primary. My favorite part was the music. Emma Lou Patton was our music teacher, and I loved her. She was easy to love, mostly because it was obvious she loved me. (Love often works that way.) Emma Lou had a passel of kids of her own, which kept her plenty busy. Still, she gathered up her bag-full of visual aids and her song book and drove the many miles out to our church house every week just to teach us the Gospel of Christ through music. She made music fun, and she helped me find my voice as a kid. When I sing certain Primary songs, to this day, I can see, in the back of my mind, the flappy underarms of Sister Patton, always floating behind the beat, following her hand, which was spot-on with the rhythm of the song.
Today, as I led the Primary children in our little rock church here in Farmington, in their annual Primary program, I found myself channeling Emma Lou Patton. I felt her with me. I’ve been leading Primary music, this time around, for well over four years. Today the children spoke, and sang, and testified with their inherent purity and charm. I stood there in front of them, planted strategically in the third row of the congregation so the kids could all see me from the stand, and gave my young friends the beat to follow, my lips mouthing the words in an overtly animated way, hoping to trigger their memories to prevail over their nerves.
I stood there and bounced my hand to the exact beat of each song as my flappy underarms flew like water balloons underneath, always behind the beat. Just like my own Primary music teacher. The prideful part of me cringed at the thought of it, but the child in me rejoiced in it. I thought of holding my arms snug to my side and just moving my wrist. But, thankfully, age and experience have released me from the steely grip of excessive pride and I held my arms out wide, like I was preparing for a massive group hug, and off my underarms went, dancing unfettered. I don’t think the kids minded, though no doubt they have noted my excesses. They sing with all their hearts, and they speak the language of the Gods, forgiving my flaws. (Love often works that way.)
Today I am thankful for arms that can move, and children who are willing to follow them. And I am thankful for the power of music to bind us, to heal us, and inspire.
