Give Yourself to Love--Part 1

He was going on a trip with his wife and children. In the car, the two oldest children--six and seven--were trying to hit one another over and around the car seat between them containing a three-year old child, whose laugh rang with maverick and the sound of bells. That little girl's voice always meant something to her father. He loved every time she spoke, even if the words were oppositional or rude, because her voice was perfection. And the two fighting siblings, a boy and girl, were beginning to banter above an interview their mother had found particularly interesting on NPR.

His wife, who was driving, pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the radio. She was silent, but looked at her husband and smiled. She squeezed his hand. He loved her so, so much. She often did this when the children fought in the car. The silence would make them uncomfortable. They realized how childish their arguments were when they sensed they were silently being judged. They would quiet themselves and say, "sorry" with embarrassed and reluctant heart. He would look back at them and smile. "Thank you both," He would say. "I'm proud of you. What would you like to sing?"

This family always sang after an argument. In the time it took to sing a song or two, the pettiness was far behind them. If the fight was over serious matters, they would discuss it. But more often than not, the argument was over the color of Spongebob's house or who had said, "MY COOL CAR!" first. On this day, the older boy spoke first. "Can we sing What Wondrous Love Is This?" The six year-old girl nodded vigorously. Then all eyes moved to the baby of the family. "Whatever. I don't care," she said. Her mother rolled her eyes at her, and began to sing. The mother never did complain that she didn't hear the end of that interview. Later her husband remembered that she'd missed the interview she had been so enjoying, and He asked her about it. "What is the value of the words of an intelligent stranger beside the value of harmony in my VW?" And He couldn't answer the rhetorical question, so He smiled at her and kissed her forehead. "You're a good mama," He said.

He was a decent singer. He was not the singer his wife was. She sang in college and competed as a soloist all over the state. He could carry a tune, which was more than some men could say, really. He sang the melody, and the kids followed him, and when the mother felt they were secure, she would sing a soaring harmony above and below them, weaving in and out of the melody effortlessly. The youngest, that little girl, was already beginning to pick up on these harmonies, which her mother kept consistent for this purpose. The other two were content to join their father; but that little girl had a voice that, accompanied by her soon-to-be-discovered perfect pitch, would eventually surpass her mother's skill. And her mother could not be prouder of her--she had given her daughter every opportunity her parents had not. And the result was phenomenal.

He thought that was probably why He loved his little girl so much. It was like falling in love with his wife's voice all over again. It was magic.

The mother put the car back in drive and got back on the highway. What wondrous love is this? Oh, my soul. Oh, my soul. The six year-old girl picked the next song, and then the mother, and then the youngest, and finally He got his chance. "Give Yourself to Love." He said almost apologetically. He was a predictable man. It was the first song He'd ever heard his wife sing. She was at a coffee house with her guitar and her floral dress. Her hair was braided by her roommate at the time, and He was struck by her face. It was so intelligent-looking. She cared about the words she sang, and she meant every sound of every syllable of every word of every line. And the first time He heard her He cried. It would not be the first time his wife's voice made him cry.

Give yourself to love,
if love is what you're after.
Open your heart to the
tears and laughter and
Give yourself to love.
Give yourself to love.

His family laughed, but they obliged. It was a family favorite, after all. They sang all the way to the park in the mother's hometown. It was a woodsy park with trails, and gravel crunched under their wheels as they pulled in. They'd never come here before. Their usual family, nature trips were taken to a park nearly an hour and a half away, while all along this one was a half-hour drive (even with His wife's very, very slow driving). He was a little chagrined the He had not been informed of the existence of this quaint, beautiful park so nearby. And now that He saw it, He was particularly bitter. It was beautiful. But He watched his wife step outside the car, cross her arms and close her eyes. He wanted to go to her and touch her. But someone had to get the kids out of the car and the water bottles out of the back... and the keys out of the ignition.

But once He'd done those things, He sat the kids at a picnic table and took Mommy away for a "super-secret, completely boring grown-up conversation."

"Honey, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"I don't believe you." He looked her right in the eye. But then her countenance turned from one of solemn remembrance to one of relief. What did I say that was so great? He thought. She kissed him on the cheek. "We can talk about it later, Love. But for now, I want to go on a walk with our precious babies."

And so they did.

*The picture is a woman holding a flower behind her back with a tattoo of an hourglass on her wrist. This is the mother.