Singing | All is Well

Wild and Sweet: I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

December 11, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

Where I live, there are church bells that ring every single day.

You see, I live behind small Methodist church, with an old-fashioned bell tower. In fact, I rent my tiny, wonderful home from this small, wonderful church. And 4 times a day, the bells ring out.

9:00 am

12:00 pm

3:00 pm

6:00 pm

I love their sound. I love how loud they are, how strong they are. How they echo, just slightly.

I particularly love them at Christmas time.

They have come to be like the sky is to me. Settling. Steady. Sure. Faithful. They can be counted on.

Never once have the stopped. Day in, day out. They’ve been a constant presence in my life, since they day my crew and I moved into this tiny, wonderful house–broken, despairing, nearly hopeless.

Just recently, while I was sitting at my desk, working while listening to Christmas music, the song “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” came up in the play list.

I’m not sure that I’ve ever paid any attention to the lyrics. To me, it has always been such a dreadfully dull song. It sort of plods along, tune-wise. It doesn’t seem loud and majestic, like “O Come, All Ye Faithful”, or reflective, like “Silent Night.”

But as I sat at my desk, I found myself pulled to the words, written long ago by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, for the first time that I remember:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,

and wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;

“For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

These are not nothing words.

This is good stuff. Real Stuff. True Stuff.

It is so easy to fall into despair. Longfellow had much to despair over. When he wrote these words, he had learned that his song had been severely wounded in the Civil War, and he had lost his wife in a tragic fire. The man-rightfully so, understandably so-was despairing.

It is truly an intense song, when you consider that.

And, fitting for today. Hate is strong. And, it does mock the song of peace.

Life, is hard. So hard. It is exhausting.

But, here’s the thing.

God is not dead.

He does not sleep.

Yes, there are times, when it certainly seems as if He is dead. Or that He does sleep. That He doesn’t see the dark unsettledness. That He doesn’t know that we are despairing.

Or, even worse, that He doesn’t care.

But, that is not truth. That is not truth. That is not truth.

There is far, far too much evidence, that points otherwise.

And scripture assures us that He is not dead. Because 1 Corinthians 15:3-8 is truth.

And He does not sleep. Because Psalm 121:3-4 is truth.

And He sees. And knows. Because Exodus 2:23-25 is truth.

And, He acts. Because Isaiah 64:1-4 is truth.

Sometimes it is hard to remember these things, when despair is deep.

I think that may be why Longfellow found such comfort in hearing the deep church bells ringing Christmas carols in those dark days he is immersed in. The bells were LOUD. They were DEEP. They were a steady, consistent reminder to Longfellow, as they chimed out the notes that comprised of familiar Christmas carols, whose Gospel words were etched deep into his soul.

Sometimes, we need such steady reminders.

Memorized scripture passages.

Memorized lyrics from Gospel-saturated music.

And a daily re-reminding of our own souls and minds, of the peace that only comes in knowing God.

I love the phrase in this song–referencing the Christmas carols–“wild and sweet”. Opposite words, but fitting. The message is wild. Outrageously wild. Scandlous-ly wild.

But, o my soul, it is also so, very, very sweet.

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,
    that the mountains might quake at your presence—
²as when fire kindles brushwood
    and the fire causes water to boil—
to make your name known to your adversaries,
    and that the nations might tremble at your presence!
³When you did awesome things that we did not look for,
    you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
⁴From of old no one has heard
    or perceived by the ear,
no eye has seen a God besides you,
    who acts for those who wait for him. Isaiah 64:1-4

All Is Well ~ Lift Up Your Voice, and Sing

November 25, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

I love to sing.

Always have. I sing very imperfectly. I sing much like I navigate life–like a draft horse barreling through the notes and staff and key signatures.

But, good gracious, I love to sing.

And, there is no greater joy in singing, then getting to sing in worship, with my girl.

She sings like a songbird. I don’t know where her beautiful voice comes from; except this–it must be a gift of grace, from God.

4 years ago or so, she had surgery on her throat. And, that surgery completely changed her life. She went from one who struggled to breathe freely, let alone sing, to one who has tremendous breath support and the ability to hold these high-register, soprano notes that create chicken skin.

But that’s not why I have such joy, when singing with her.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. Singing with her is fun. I’m a 5-note range alto. I can belt, but I have no flexibility, no sweetness, no gentleness to my voice. Singing with my girl allows me to sing music I’ve never been able to sing before. I let her do all the hard work, and I just fill in the harmonies. 🙂

But my joy, in singing with her, goes far beyond the fun.

It’s this: the opportunity to worship our God, together.

It’s this: the opportunity to sing words that have deep meaning, for both of us. For so many reasons.

It’s this: the opportunity to proclaim “It is Well”

I love to sing with my girl.

I noticed something interesting a couple of months back: so much of the music I gravitate to when choosing songs to sing, center on the very settled-ness that God has brought to my soul, and to my family. “Blessed Assurance”, “His Eye is on the Sparrow”, “It is Well with my Soul”, “A Mighty Fortress”; the list is long of songs that have a very similar theme.

Christmas is here, and my girl and I are preparing a couple of songs for an upcoming annual event: A Christmas Tea. One of the songs is O Holy Night; the arrangement is the one sung by Point of Grace several years ago. Traditional, and so fun to sing with her.

The second, though, nearly wrecks me. It’s a song sun by Michael W. Smith and Carrie Underwood: All is Well.

It’s the proclamation that, with the birth of Jesus, Emmanuel–the “God with-us”–entered our world. Became on of us, yet separate from us. A mystery of mysteries. And that baby was the Savior of the world. And is the Savior of the world.

Your Savior. My girl’s Savior. My Savior.

And, because of that, All is Well.

No, it doesn’t always seem as if all is well. Sin plagues us. Fear’s assault us. Nightmares haunt us. Worries surround us. Sickness takes from us. All these things–they are very real. And can shut out the light. They can cause darkness to descend in our minds and our souls.

But this is truth; these lyrics to this song:

For tonight darkness fell
Into the dawn of love’s light

Yes. On that night in Bethlehem, the darkness fell. Not on the world, but from the world. It fell–it collapsed–it disintegrated–it was consumed, by the dawn. And that dawn was the light of the only true love known to man.

A love that gave itself, as the sacrifice for our sins.

And, my friends–because of that, All Truly is Well.

And, my friends–getting to sing those words, with my girl, in her clear and strong and powerful and commanding voice, know where she has come from, and where we have come from, and the settled-ness of grace, nearly brings me to my knees, in worship.

All is well all is well
Angels and men rejoice
For tonight darkness fell
Into the dawn of love’s light
Sing A-le
Sing Alleluia

All is well all is well
Let there be peace on earth
Christ is come go and tell
That He is in the manger
Sing A-le
Sing Alleluia

All is well all is well
Lift up your voice and sing
Born is now Emmanuel
Born is our Lord and Savior
Sing Alleluia
Sing Alleluia
All is well

Unremarkable

October 16, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

As a little girl, we would occasionally visit my grandparents, who lived in a tiny town (population 300, so the sign said) in Southern Illinois.

I loved visiting my grandparents. I loved the long drive from Iowa to Illinois, through the big town of St. Louis, where I would lay in the back of our ugly station wagon and crane my neck to see the top of the arch as we drove by. I loved falling asleep in “our room”, where my sisters and I slept–a box fan in the window to draw out the hot air, and the consistent and predictable trains that would rumble past the house, under the trestle where my name had been carved in the wood by my grandpa.

I loved going there. It was quiet. It was safe. It was peaceful. I would sit on their screened-in porch for hours, reading classics that I found on their shelves–Little Women. War of the Worlds. Black Beauty. (That was my favorite; I was horse-crazy.)

My grandma could be a bit grumpy. Ok, maybe more than a bit. Ok, maybe a whole lot more than a bit.

But not my grandpa. He was soft-spoken. Quiet. An architect, he worked in a tall glass building in town, and had done some of the design work for The Mitchell Museum–a beautiful building. I thought he was famous.

He was famous, in my eyes.

I loved my grandpa. He once made me a dollhouse, and surprised me with it. I loved that thing. And I only remember him getting angry at me one time, when a sudden midwest storm came barreling through the town, and instead of running to the stairway closet (the storm shelter) like he had told me to, I ran and hid in the living room, right in front of the plate-glass window, because I wanted to see the storm. He couldn’t find me, and he was scared, and when he did–well, let’s just say that I couldn’t sit for a bit. I deserved it.

But here is what I remember most, about my grandpa. He would patiently walk around his yard with me, while I hunted locust shells.

I loved locust shells. I have no idea why. I know that is odd; but I’m an odd duck. I liked to find them, clinging to trees, and then carefully remove them from the tree and place them into my toilet-paper lined shoebox that I kept them in. I even had names for them.

My grandpa never made fun of me. He would help me look for them. So we walked around the property at least once a day during our visits, hunting locust shells.

And, as we walked, he would sing.

He didn’t have a great voice; he just liked to sing. A lot. And his favorite song was this:

His Eye is on the Sparrow

He told me that Ethyl Waters used to sing that song. I didn’t know who Ethel Waters was, until years later. He told me that it meant God cares for the birds, and cares for us even more.

When I was little, I believed that. When I got older, I wasn’t so sure. And, at one point, I was certain that it wasn’t true, at all.

But, o my soul, how I know it to be truth, now. Today. Many years after my grandpa’s death. Many year’s after many hard things.

I know that God is a God who not only sees, and knows, and acts.

He also cares.

A sparrow is a non-remarkable bird. It isn’t pretty. It’s very average. It doesn’t have striking plumage, or a beautiful song. It’s a small, brown bird. Amongst thousands of birds. It is, for the most part, nondescript. They are nearly invisible. No one notices them. No one goes to a zoo, to look at sparrows. No one goes to a pet store, to buy a sparrow.

So I wonder if that is exactly why a sparrow was the bird chosen in this passage, found in Matthew 10:

²⁸And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. ²⁹Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. ³⁰But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. ³¹Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.

I can barely read these 4 verses, without being wrecked.

Do not fear those who hurt the body; they cannot kill the soul. Yes. O, my soul.

Not one of these non-remarkable, invisible, small, brown birds falls to the ground, without God–the Father–knowing. Or caring.

He cares.

And then, verse 31.

You, child of God, are of more value, than many, many sparrows.

He cares.

This coming Sunday, I will get to sing these words. A gift. A declaration.

Why are you discouraged, o my soul? Why do you long for heaven and home?

Jesus is my portion.

He is my constant friend.

His eye is on the sparrow; and I know–it must be truth–I know, He watches me.

So I’ll sing.

With joy.

And I’ll remember my grandpa’s tenor voice, and his words as we walked around his yard. And I’ll remember what I have discovered to be truth.

Even I–in all my messed-upness, and odd-duckness, and cynical-ness, and sinful-ness, and hard-hearted-ness, and awkward-ness, and prideful-ness, and prone-to-fail-ness, and my unremarkable-ness.

Even I am loved, by God, my Father.

And that, my friends, is remarkable.

The Hysterical Absurdity of Life (The Grace of Laughter)

September 21, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

I wasn’t going to post anything more for my birthday, after last night’s post.

But life is so very funny. And so, while last night’s post was serious in nature, not all of life is so serious. There is much to laugh about.

Like this morning.

I was already a bit in disarray when I arrived at church early to run through the worship set before Sunday School. I had been moving slow all morning, because of my blasted knee (see previous post). And from the time I rolled out of bed till the time I arrived at church, 3 minutes late (I can’t stand being late), it had been a comedy of errors.

I had washed my hair first with conditioner, not shampoo.

I didn’t have any rubbing alcohol or baby oil to remove my temporary tattoos from The Color Run. I tried cooking oil, but all that got me was an arm that smelled, well, like cooking oil.

I looked in the mirror to brush my hair, and noticed that my face was, um, sparkly. Really sparkly. That’s after two showers of scrubbing my face. The glitter from The Color Run is in my pores. It won’t come out. I may be sparkly until I die. I hate sparkly.

I threw on a skirt and top, only to then proceed to drop the brush I was attempting to use to put some color on my pasty, sparkly skin (normally I could care less; on Sunday’s I actually try my hand at make-up) to try to dull the Princess Effect of the glitter. I am no princess. I dropped the brush, right onto my black skirt. Hello streak of Desert Rose or Burnt Amber or WHATEVER color it is that I bought. On clearance.

I jumped in my car, only to have to return–twice–to my house for forgotten items. First–Plates and silverware for our Misfit Sunday School brunch party. Second–the right pair of shoes. Don’t ask what I had put on. Good grief.

Once I arrived at church, things settled down a bit, but not without a few more mishaps. Like the way I totally and completely forgot a two measure rest in one of the songs, resulting in me belting (’cause I certainly couldn’t do it quietly) out an unplanned solo, and–without thinking–exclaimed “GOOD GRACIOUS” out of frustration once I realized what I had done, prompting folks out in the atrium to turn their heads and look at us. Oops. Mic on.

And we had all sorts of monitor, mic and sound balance challenges. All sorts. Our poor worship pastor, in a moment of frustration, declared “It’s going to be one of those mornings.”

Yep. Open Door. Couldn’t resist.

Out of my mouth came this:

“Funny. That’s the exact same thing that my mom said, 46 years ago today.”

Sometimes, the poor guy just doesn’t know what to make of me.

Sunday School Breakfast–yes, of course, I dropped sticky buns on my now replacement Coral and Black Striped skirt. Sticky Buns with tons of sugar and cinnamon goodness on them. Yep, it was obvious. I spent the rest of Sunday School trying to scrape it off, with little luck.

And then–Worship Service.

It was and is always always always, so very good to help lead worship. It means the world to me; the gift and opportunity to do so. I never, ever take that responsibility lightly. Ever.

This morning was no exception. And, maybe to a degree more, in light of it being my birthday. An excellent way to start yet another year.

And, we were leading a song that has deep personal meaning to me–A Hillsong piece, titled “The Stand”:

You stood before my failure
And carried the cross for my shame
My sin weighed upon your shoulders
My soul now to stand

Goodness, those words. Right there. They are not nothing. My soul now to stand.

So, I was really looking forward to helping to lead this third song in this morning’s set. And I was to open the first verse as a single voice, with the rest of the team joining in on the second verse.

Except, right after the second song, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what we were singing next. But I DID vaguely remember that I was starting it alone. But when I looked up at our monitor, there were no words on display to jog my memory as to what the song was. Now, remember, just an hour previously we had practiced THIS VERY SAME SONG.

Scripture was read–still no memory and no words. The first chord was played, and it did nothing to dislodge the blankness that was my brain–still no words, and still no memory.

So I casually stepped to the pulpit as if I was supposed to do so, and slowly turned pages in the book on the pulpit in hopes to find it. While that first chord was being held. Waiting for me. To start.

It wasn’t in there. Or else I couldn’t find it.

I nonchalantly stepped back, and I could see the worship leader kind of looking at me out of the corner of his eye, as he sustained the chord on his keyboard. I was quickly trying to form something of some sort–words, notes, anything, in my brain that would somehow match the chord being played.

I looked back up at the monitor, and by God’s grace–boom–words.

And my brain went. “Oh yeah. Hey, this is that song that is huge to you. These words are important to you. Sing!”

And so I sang.

After probably the longest sustained chord in all of church history. Ok, maybe not. But it certainly seemed that way.

And then, to wrap up the hysterical-ness that is my life, halfway through lunch with friends, I remembered that the hash browns that I had bungee corded to my sore knee last night while in bed, and that had fallen off sometime in the night, were still lying in my bed at home. Warm and mushy. They could probably be made into mashed taters now. Except, ew.

Life is funny folks. It is so funny.

There is much, much to laugh about, each and every day. Every single day.

I don’t write much here, in this space, about the absurdity of life. Usually my more serious thoughts go here. But there is grace, also, in being able to laugh. In being able to see the funny things in life, and enjoy them for what they are–God’s mercies to us. I am a serious thinker. Always have been, always will be. I ponder, question, stew, debate, fret, and live bathed in doubt and cynicism.

I think too much, probably.

Maybe that is why God allows so much ridiculousness in my life; to keep me aware that I am a sinfully prideful fool, who needs Him, and Him alone. And without Him, I am a mess.

I’ll stand
With arms high and heart abandoned
In awe of the one who gave it all
I’ll stand
My soul Lord to you surrendered
All I am is yours