Raise your voice

Yesterday, as I do every few weeks, I spent the Sunday morning worship service in the church balcony, running the computer as part of our congregation’s AV team.

Tucked behind a big computer monitor and an even bigger TV screen, I can see but not be seen as I sing along quietly to the morning’s songs, enjoying the solitude like a proper introvert should.

The congregation seemed subdued during communion as the pianist coaxed a gentle Advent hymn from the piano at the front of the sanctuary. The organist (yes, we still use an organ, in addition to our praise team-led music) was out sick, and the congregation sang tentatively without the rich, room-filling sound of the organ to back them up.

“Let songs of praise ascending now greet the Morning Star,” we sang softly, our collective voices barely reaching over the tops of the pews.

When I was a kid, church hymns were never quiet ― not when my dad was in church. He was a booming bass, and he loved to sing. You could almost see the little old ladies in front of us bracing themselves as he barrelled out a song behind them, filling the pointy-ceilinged sanctuary with sound. 

His big voice came in handy for his job as a high school principal, its authority commanding respect in meetings and snapping squirrelly teenagers to attention. In a boisterous classroom or in front of an assembly in the school gym, his deep and slow, “I’m talking,” with a lingering and emphatic “I,” made mouths shut and ears ready themselves for whatever he had to say.

No question, volume goes a long way in getting people to listen.

Of course, being loud is not the same thing as being right.

The biggest voice usually gets the most attention, no matter what that voice is saying. The cruel voice, the self-absorbed voice, the voice that disparages and condemns too often out-shouts kinder and gentler words ― and too often we just listen, maybe shaking our heads but forgetting that we have voices, too.

In those church services of my youth, I sometimes squirmed and blushed when my dad sang out, afraid it might make people look at us. He sang well, but he didn’t always nail the melody, and sometimes he sang the words in his head rather than the words everyone else was singing. I worried we would look silly, and sometimes I wanted him to just sing quietly, like everyone else.

Years later, when I had grown up and no longer got to stand next to him on Sunday mornings, Dad told me why he sang so loudly.

He said he knew sometimes other people didn’t feel comfortable singing. He thought, if he sang nice and loud, they would be less afraid. And then they could sing, too.

Leaders don’t just yell as loudly as they can, spouting their own beliefs and declaring themselves unassailably right. Leaders use their voices to do good. To stand up for what’s right, and to encourage others to do the same. They sing loudly so others can sing, too.

In my hiding space in the balcony, as I watched my Christian brothers and sisters approach the altar and, one by one, receive wine and bread that connects us to the booming voice of a Father who loves us so much He gave everything to make us His, I found myself singing that Advent tune the way my dad would have sung it ― loudly.

It didn’t count as real courage, since nobody knew the disembodied voice from above belonged to me. But maybe raising my imperfect voice helped someone else be brave enough to sing, someone who was just waiting for a strong voice to lead them.

My dad has been in heaven a good long while now, but I can still hear his voice booming inside me. I can see it, too. I see it in the resolute doggedness of my high-school-principal brother, leading his school family with firmness and compassion, just like Dad did. I see it in my husband as he bends over his desk, finding words to inspire his people to reach a loving hand toward the hurting of our community. I see it in the many people I’ve had the honor to meet who speak up at meetings and stand up to internet bullies and run for office and write columns because they have a warmth in their chest that tells them something needs to be done, and they are the ones who need to do it.

You have words, too. You have a say in what happens around you. If nobody is saying what needs to be said, say it. It’s OK if your voice wobbles or you get some of the words wrong. Hide in the balcony if you need to. But, if there’s a song in your heart, sing.

The world needs your voice.

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End notes:

1. Above, where I mentioned “Hide in the balcony if you need to,” I first typed “Hide in the baloney,” and I thought that was pretty funny.

2. It didn’t fit in the story, but, for a while, my dad stopped singing in church because he found out it embarrassed my brother and me. I’m pretty sure there’s a profound lesson there about not stifling the people who have the courage to speak up for what’s right. Mostly, though, I just feel bad he stopped singing, and I’m really glad he eventually started again.

3. I nibbled pepper jack Cheez-Its as I typed this, and I enjoyed them very much. I just thought you'd like to know.

If you know someone who might enjoy this blog, I’d be honored if you’d share it with them. I enjoy getting emails from you sometimes (somewhere down at the bottom of this page there’s a place to send me an email) and would love to read and reply to more. Life’s more interesting when we talk about it.

*If anyone’s looking for a last-minute gift idea for someone you love, I was thinking this morning how much I like and use the air fryer my son gave me a while back. You’re welcome!

Now I feel like sharing a picture of my dad. This is him and my brother and me, at Yellowstone Falls, around the time he stopped singing. ...Ever wish you could go back in time and tell someone how much you love them?

Violence and the Manger

I tried to not write this. Not in December, anyway. Not when we’re all supposed to be thinking about angels and presents and joy and peace.

I’m sorry, but it can’t wait. It’s too important.

And, in a way, it’s what Christmas is all about.

Yesterday, again, students huddled in fear as police searched for a shooter on a school campus in Las Vegas.

Again.

Only a few days earlier, on Sunday, the U.S. marked its 37th and 38th mass shootings of the year, more than in any year since at least 2006. Mass shootings ― defined by the FBI as any incident in which at least four people are murdered with a gun ― have killed nearly 200 people and injured another 100 this year alone.

Less-publicized, non-mass murders end the lives of 20-some-thousand people a year in our country. In Michigan, where I live, at least 685 people, including nearly 50 children, died by murder in 2022. Another nearly 35,000 were the victims of violent assault. 

National data paints an imprecise picture of crime trends. By some measures, violent crime has actually decreased markedly for the past three decades, while other stats show recent surges in violence, especially murder.

Numbers and trends matter. Frankly, though, I don’t care if violence is going up or down. It exists, and it’s killing our kids, and it’s not OK.

In November, The Washington Post broke my heart when it published a collection of photos taken in the aftermath of several of our nation’s horrific mass shootings.

The pictures don’t show identifiable bodies or overt gruesomeness. They are not horror-movie graphic.

They’re worse.

Worse because they’re real.

As the Post explained in statements from its editors, the decision to publish those photos was made carefully and after much internal debate over what to show, and why. Many photos obtained by The Post didn’t make the cut because they would be too upsetting, especially to the families of those killed.

It’s all upsetting. I stood in my kitchen and sobbed when I finally worked up the courage to look at the photos and read the accompanying quotes from people who were there, words full of pain and confusion and loss. It all hurt like a gut punch. I wanted to swipe the scenes away and scroll Facebook or surf for animal memes, instead.

I imagine The Post heard from more than a few angry readers aghast at the outlet’s decision to share the images, just like I imagine some people reading this may find themselves upset with me for talking about this, especially now, with Christmas all around us.

But I’m writing about it for the same reason I made myself stand in my kitchen and look, the same reason The Post chose to publish. Because we need to see the bad. Or nothing ever gets better.

When our kids have to practice active shooter drills, when we can’t go anywhere ― not a concert, not a bowling alley, not church ― and know we are safe, it’s time to do something. It’s past time.

Doing nothing is not an option.

And waiting for someone else to do something is not an option, either.

All over the country, legislators and politicians are arguing about the best way to reduce crime. That’s great. Safety should absolutely be a top-priority discussion, and that discussion should lead to action. Now.

Policymakers alone can’t keep us safe, though. New rules, by themselves, won’t stop the hands or change the minds of people driven to hurt other people.

"Mass shootings don’t happen in my town," you may be thinking. I hope you’re right. I hope it never happens to you, to your town. And maybe you live in a place where even single murders are rare or unheard of. Give thanks for that. 

But murder is not the only measure of violence. Even in the safest hamlets, the quietest villages, people are assaulting other people. Kids are being neglected and abused. People are ending their own lives. And the contributors to violent behavior ― inadequate resources, insurmountable barriers, loneliness, desperation ― are everywhere. Around the corner. In your neighbor’s home. At your front doorstep. 

These are our communities. We can and should demand that those with power over us do everything in their power to keep us safe. But safety is in our hands, too.

I just got home from the courthouse, where a judge sentenced a 20-year-old to spend the next 23 years in prison for firing one bullet that ended the life of another young man. As the victim’s mother poured out her pain to the sentencing judge, I couldn’t help wondering what points along the shooter’s path could have kept his finger off of the trigger.

A teacher’s words. A neighbor’s kind gesture. An affirming text message, a passerby’s smile, a toy and warm pair of mittens from the local church’s Christmas gift drive. A hot meal. Could any such seemingly insignificant gesture have done enough good to save a life?

No one action, any more than any one law or policy or program, can stop violence. But one action could impact one decision at one critical juncture in someone's life. It could be the last whap of an ax before a tree is ready to fall, the final push someone needed for them to choose Path A instead of Path B.

When I think about the complexity of the problems around me, I get overwhelmed and want to look the other way. I can’t fix it. I can’t make people put down their guns and lower their fists.

But I can do one thing. And maybe, though I’ll never know it, my one thing is the thing that makes the difference.

The hay-filled manger with its precious cargo is joy and sweetness and angels and heavenly peace. But if that’s where it stops, Christmas is meaningless.

That baby in a box did not come to coo at shepherds. He came to do battle.

Christmas is a rallying cry. What we celebrate each year amid the tinsel and bows is the forward-march cry of the Christ child who led the charge out into an aching world, out where he knocked over tables and riled up leaders and stood on a hill where he stretched out his arms, looked at the people around Him, and loved the hell out of them.

Soak up that precious Christmas peace as much as you can. It’s rare and beautiful. Then take a good look at the world around you, with all its pain and ugliness, and follow the lead of our warrior Savior for whom doing nothing was not an option.

Volunteer at the food bank. Donate to the thrift store. Look an intimidating stranger in the eye and smile at them. Give a homeless person a jar of peanut butter. Do something.

It might be the thing that saves a life.

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Although I address violent behavior in my writing, I want to clarify that the person in the photo at the top of this post does not represent violence. Her name is Cassie. Last night, she slept in an abandoned building. Her last meal was yesterday, when a man gave her some leftover pancakes. Despite her obvious mental illness, she is not dangerous.

I suspect the three dollars I gave her won’t help her that much, nor the ten minutes I sat on the sidewalk and listened to her. But we just don’t know what difference our actions might make. 

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Fa-la-la, and all that

Time to set the radio dial to your favorite Christmas station, crank it up, and rip the knob off.

Most everything about the Christmas season makes me happy, from twinkly lights to the absurdity of a tree in my living room. But way up high on the Great Things About Christmas list is the music.

I hands-down love walking through a store while singing along to whatever goofy holiday tune is blaring over the loudspeakers, or bopping to a Pandora Christmas playlist while I tidy the kitchen. In the privacy of my car, I accompany the local radio station at top volume, delighting equally in the chills of “O Holy Night” and the silliness of belting out, “Thumpety, thump thump, thumpety, thump thump, look at Frosty go!”

You can’t make a strong case that all Christmas music is good. I mean, "Last Christmas" by Wham!. Enough said.

Still, there’s something special about the music of the season that can’t be matched any other time of year.

Christmas music links us to the past. Nostalgia oozes from centuries-old Christmas hymns, the kind sung in four-part harmony in church sanctuaries hung with garland as children gaze into tipsy candles and elderly women wipe tears from their cheeks.

With the opening strains of “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful,” I’m a girl in a church pew between my parents, leaning into my mom’s soft alto and my dad’s deep bass. “Away in a Manger” whisks me to children’s Christmas programs and wiggly little ones and sticky fingers from tight-clutched candy canes. “Silent Night” eases into my ear, and suddenly I’m singing auf Deutsch, caressing the German words as they roll over the back of my tongue.

The songs don’t have to have deep meaning or linked-in memories to set my toes a-tapping, though. Give me some "Jingle Bell Rock" or “Santa Baby” (1953 Eartha Kitt version, please) or, heck, even “I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas” and I’ll sing along, happy as an elf.

Christmas music offers us a lot to love. But one reason we embrace it has nothing to do with cherished memories or religious meaning or even the holiday at all.

I think it makes us happy because we just like singing.

Sure, we have the whole rest of the year to sing. Christmas songs, though ― we know those. They are ingrained in our brains, played over and over December after December in version after version until they are a part of us. And something about the season gives us permission to sing, even if someone might hear us.

And a good sing just feels good. Singing releases endorphins, those squirrelly little chemicals that tell the body everything’s OK. How cool is that? Singing Christmas songs actually creates physical changes that help us cope with the parts of our lives that aren’t merry and bright.

The holiday season, with all its glitter and sparkle, can be tough. The joy of gift-giving takes hard hits from a bank account in turmoil. Unrealistic expectations hold peace out of reach. Burdens weigh heavier when everyone else seems downright jolly.

Christmas music can’t offer the balm to all wounds. But it helps. Singing helps. Doing one little thing to make yourself feel better, like belting out the ridiculous words to a silly song at a stoplight, helps. It makes the not-great a tiny bit better.

It turns out that, at least according to a bunch of internet sites, singing is even better for you when you do it with other people. Shared singing experiences offer all kinds of mental and physical benefits, including a feeling of belonging and connection.

We can’t all join a choir ― although I appreciate those of you who do, because I love listening to you. But Christmas music is never really sung alone. When you go tell it on a mountain, you’re lifting your voice with folks all over the world, all of us soaking in those beloved words and reveling in the melodies of our youths and caroling together in our cars and kitchens and department stores, a separate but united choir all around the world.

And, really, isn’t that when we’re at our best ― when we sing together? Isn’t together how we best confront our troubles and soothe our stresses and heal our hurts? Alone, I can raise my small voice and make things a little better, for me and for those around me. But, together, a choir swelling the ancient song of hope and peace and love for our fellow man, we right wrongs. We share joy. We give. We heal. We restore.

You’ve got a few weeks left to revel in the music of the season. Crank it up and sing away. 

I’ll be singing with you.