Happy Pi Day and yes, I plan to make a pie because why not?
Yesterday afternoon, we were settled under blankets and watching the championship game for the NCAA when out of my mouth came the words, “Oh! That Hymnoscope thing is at 4, right? Were we going to go?”
First off, you have to understand that I am not usually the one to stir us up off of the couch to go somewhere. Second, it was the NCAA championship game as I may have mentioned and something my husband thoroughly enjoys.
But we must have both been feeling the tug of the Spirit, because he said that was correct and he would like to attend and so off we went to our church for the second time on a Sunday.
The Hymnscope is a new-fangled name for the old Hymn Sing of my youth. It is an informal service where they drag out the well-worn hymnals from some closet and there are some instruments and singers and rows of people who seem to have memorized the page numbers of favorites from their childhood cause they are ready to shout them out faster than a Bingo caller.
So we sat there and I did what I have done since my earliest childhood memories of either looking off what my parents held in their hands for me to see or finally when I was old enough to man my own hymnal.
I sang the words and chose which notes were in my range. And when the options become too low or too high, I choose a note I can hit that seems close or I stop singing and just let those who are blessed with the talent to carry a tune lead my soul into worship.
And I have to confess that along with the poignant words of these old familiar praises, I began to have memories flood over me that prompted tears.
I can’t listen to a room full of voices singing “The Old Rugged Cross” and “How Great Thou Art” and not hear my dad’s perfect pitch and my mom and aunt with their soprano gusto around me.
I can feel the fabric of my dad’s well made suit brushing against my cheek as I lean into him and I smell his aftershave and I know without a doubt he has a couple of sour ball candies in that coat pocket to give me when the sermon starts so I don’t fidget and hopefully don’t fall asleep.
And even as I marvel at how the music style may change but the worship is the same; I am thankful for the legacy of faith my parents gave me.
We were far from perfect.
But I knew from birth that I was formed and sustained and saved and loved by a great and mighty God.
For this I am eternally, literally, thankful.