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.
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