Christmas Eve, 2003
You’ve been gone for over twenty years. And still, I miss you.
I had known you since I was about ten years old. You were an enormous man in both stature and character. You were very tall and broad, with a long full face and gigantic hands. Your deep bass voice filled the room when you spoke. Your laugh was a cacophony of sound that came from deep within you, and when you sang, the notes rang full and strong. You had a passion for music. This is how I remember you.
I had the chance to sing with the adult choir. I felt small and a bit overwhelmed, but I loved it so. People made a big deal out of the fact that you were the oldest and I was the youngest. This didn’t embarrass me at all. I felt proud to be mentioned with you in the same breath. I felt special and lucky that I had this chance to sing with you. I got to be with the grownups and sing important music. I got to laugh with your jokes, especially the never-ending “what page was that again?” This is how I remember you.
You were my Grandpa -- but not really. You were my little brother’s Grandpa -- but not really. You were everybody’s Grandpa who wanted one. And lots of us did. I didn’t feel jealous, because you made each one of us feel special and loved. This is how I remember you.
The years passed, I grew up, but I still remember us being close. You were a musician. I was a musician. There was an unspoken understanding we shared about our mutual love of music and the indefinable, unbreakable force it held in our lives. Even though your voice was strong and mine was weak and just beginning to grow, I felt like we shared this musical and philosophical space together. This is how I remember us.
You had bone cancer. You, this enormous man of stature and character were being attacked by something that started with one microscopic cell. Your very existence was forever altered by a miniscule change, a tiny cellular mutation. Your voice got weaker and mine continued to grow, but I didn’t really seem to notice. Not at first. I don’t remember why.
The choir was preparing portions of the marvelous oratorio, Elijah by Mendelssohn. You were going to sing the title role of Elijah, but pulled out at the last minute because you were too weak. I wasn’t sad. I was secretly glad. Elijah has to sing, “It is enough, Oh Lord Now Take Away My Life.” I didn’t think you should sing that. I didn’t think you should even think that – even if you were only singing a role. Some people thought it would be poignant or touching or bittersweet for you to sing that – mostly likely for one last time. I thought it was the wrong.
You grew weaker. I remember going to your house when you were quite ill. My mother and I played two-handed Christmas Music. Although the piano was in a different room from where your bed was set up, you could hear us down the hall and around the corner. You loved our impromptu concert so much -- I was so proud and excited to be able to bring you some happiness. It was as if the very notes melted away your pain and we all leapt from our mortal places and danced together, full of love, life and music. I will never forget that day. I will never forget your gratitude.
You died on Christmas Eve. I don’t have words that even come close to describing my sadness. My heart burst into a billion grief-stricken shards. I was told that your final words were “…beautiful…beautiful…” and I think this was told to me to somehow make me feel better. I took a little comfort in this idea, but was soon overwhelmed once more by the thought that you were no longer here.
You died on Christmas Eve, and I had to sing that night. My solo was a portion of “The First Noel” sung over the entire choir.
The first noel the angel did say was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay-
in fields where they lay keeping their sheep, on a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Noel, noel! Noel, noel! Born is the King of Israel!
They looked up and saw a star shining in the east, beyond them far;
and to the earth it gave great light, and so it continued both day and night.
Noel, noel! Noel, noel! Born is the King of Israel!
I felt lost and alone, and yet here I was, singing about stars that gave direction and hope to the world. Although I felt small, my voice grew fuller and stronger. Although I felt sad and afraid, I put my trust in those things that gave me strength and hope. Ultimately, I made it through my solo without falling apart. What carried me? I don’t know for sure. All I know is that you died on Christmas Eve and I sang “Noel” -- a French word originating from Latin meaning "birthday." You were gone, but life and music continued on in its own beautiful dance.
I have never and will never forget you. Your kindness, your humor, your wit and your incredible musical abilities have influenced my life and inspired my heart. I think of you often, and I make selfish wishes that you were here now. As I sing in church I smile, thinking about my voice sharing the same space and filling the room the way yours did, passionate and strong.
A part of me is sad because you are gone.
A part of me is quiet because your voice is still.
But as I look at your life and all it has meant to me and so many others, I can only say
“…beautiful…beautiful…”
Merry Christmas.
Lyrics and background information on the hymn “The First Noel” can be found here.
All lyrics are the property and copyright of their respective owners.
All lyrics are provided for educational purposes and personal use only.
Other FaLaLaLaLa Offerings of 2003
~~ The Tale of the Flaming Pig ~~
~~ Fifty Angry Men ~~
~~ The Tale of the Bloody Keys ~~
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