Merry Happy

I come from a singing family. When I was little, I was completely tone deaf. My dad and I would substitute, and by substitute I mean in addition to... Singing lessons into the bedtime routine. He would sing a note, and I would try and sing the same note. We sang our lullabies. In elementary school as a one car family, Brie and my mom and I sang 'let's go get our daddy, silly little daddy." And all the subsequent verses until we arrived at dad's  work to take him home with us. We sang our school songs. We practiced our songs for SPARC,  and belted along with the radio.

In middle school, the blossoming female phenomenon that I sought to be, I was always singing famous songs to my parents. Practicing. Trying, to be a singer. A singer songwriter if you will.

And I was in the choir. In the beginning, because that's where my friends were. And in the end, well, because that's where my friends were. And of course, the ever persuasive and subtle notion that were I to make a choice to not be in the choir, well, my allowance might make a choice to not be in my pocket.  Priorities, people!

But that's neither here nor there. The fact is, singing, no matter how eloquent or inspiring has been a part of my life since I was born. 

My uncle Paul, God love him, sings at the top of his lungs, in all accents available (or not) to him, oblivious to those he's verbally assaulting, and much to the chagrin of my dear sweet aunt Suzanne. My Mawmaw used to tip toe into our rooms when she would visit, a devilish gleam in her eyes, yank off our blankets with a hoorah! And launch into a several versed onslaught of 'wake up wake up you sleepy heads, the sun is up and you're in bed!" She would teeter on dancing toes,  merrily around our room, always out of reach, fanning our blankets in the air and giggling mercilessly. 

There's Mimi, who will turn any singular word you utter into a song. Some made up, and some from this or that jingle, hymn, commercial, or popular song from the last 70 years. You couldn't believe it, (but believe it) when I tell you, how many frilly and bubbling serenades my MiMi knows.

And while this could have been (was, is, and will be) an ever infuriating and obnoxious quality. It also is completely ingratiating. It puts a smile on my face to think about, and I know I'll remember it. Treasure it. And shamelessly assault my sass-mouthed and cynical grandchildren with exactly the same tactics. 

I told you all that to tell you that on Sunday we decorated the Christmas tree at St. Joseph's. A long standing and special tradition, the lights not yet lit, every boy puts an ornament on the tree and so on and so forth until every ornament had found a place. Tinsel is tossed, the angel is begrudgingly mounted on her post, and in the dark of the night, with the sounds of Haiti going on all around us, this family of children clasp hands and sing. The lights are turned on, and the tree is brilliant. The boys then can choose to speak. They talk about what the Christmas tree means to them. What this tree, in all of it's splendor, and it's beautiful lights means to them.

And it means so many things. It's just plain beautiful, say some boys, and it's nice that they have a beautiful thing to call their own.

The lights remind them of Christ's presence in their lives.

That they are not alone. That they have each other. And they have God's peace in their hearts.

And then we sang.

We drank egg nog and laughed until our sides ached.

We sang the 12 days of Christmas. In English, with 12 boys having signs with their individual line on it. When it came time to call out your line, the boys would jump into the middle of the room, they would scramble their lines in muddled English, others shrieking in delight.

We sang it twice. Faster and faster. 

And then we sang some more.

And by the end of it, my throat was aching, my breath came shallowly, and my sides were splitting.

Why? I thought, is my voice hurting so from singing.

I sing all the time.

I thought about it for a couple of days. This raw ache that I had experienced.

And now I know.

When you sing in Haiti, there are no apologies made. Whether or not you 'can' sing.

Whether or not you know the langauge.

Whether or not you know the song.

The boys at St. Joseph's raise their voices to the heavens.

They lift up their voices and SING.

They sing from the bottom of their toes and the raging melodies come careening up through their mouths in joyous praise.

And it doesn't matter how it sounds. They don't worry how they look. They aren't afraid of whatever others might be thinking.

And I was a part of it. When we sang those carols, and I sang at the top of my lungs, I couldn't hear my voice.

I mean, I actually couldn't hear myself at all.

I knew I was singing. Knew that notes were coming out of my throat and into the air.

But only God knows what they sounded like.

Fitting, since they were only sung to God.

And that's what made it so damn fun.

Stomping and clapping and swaying my hips to the triple time dance rhythms of deck the halls. 

Screaming into the night o come o come Immanuel.

Calling to him. Beckoning.

No apologies, no insecurities.

Just all the noise that this person I am possesses.

Calling out to Bondye in the only way that I knew how.