I love to sing. Like most human beings with any particular passion, I arrange my life in such a way as to allow for as many opportunities as I can in which to engage in that passion. In my case, most of this engagement is through church. A regular member of two separate music ministries, I spend the majority of this time either as a choir member – I usually sing in the Alto section – or as a cantor. For the unfamiliar, the cantor is a person usually up at the altar near the minister, priest, or presider who is responsible for leading the rest of the assembly in singing of the various musical hymns. In taking on such a visible role in my community – as well as being a relatively decent singer – I frequently get asked to sing for other meaningful celebrations as well; weddings, quinceaneras, and funerals.
Almost a year ago, the family of one my high school friends approached me to sing at her funeral. 39 years old, Liz wasn’t sick – during a week in July like any other, she went into the emergency room on a Thursday night complaining of some nausea. By Sunday night, Liz was pronounced brain-dead. As you can imagine, this came as a huge shock to her husband, her parents, her three siblings (a brother and two sisters, all younger). But it was also particularly shocking to me, because not only was Liz my friend since high school, she was my BEST friend. The person who knew all my secrets. The person who supported me through my life – including the death of my husband Russ two years before. With all my idiosyncrasies and quirks and character flaws, Liz was the one who never, ever wavered. I could not have loved her more if we were blood.
Most of the time, even the best musicians cannot overcome the challenge of singing at an event as significant as the funeral of their best friend. But I felt that it was the best way I could pay my respects to Liz; to honor her life and her impact on mine through the gifts that I possessed – gifts that made me special. Being able to pull emotions out of listeners through music is one of my gifts. And I wanted every single person in that church to feel the way I did; I wanted them to feel the pain of losing a beautiful person, soul, and fellow human being – from my perspective, an angel walking among us mortals that finally ended her vacation and returned home.
I chose the music. One of the songs I wanted to sing was already a favorite, given the message and the melody of it: You Alone (Sarah Hart & Dwight Liles). As with many spiritual hymns, the words talk about God and how He is worthy of our adoration and honor. To me, much like Liz. How His name is synonymous with love. To me, much like Liz. How blessed we are to have the gift of His friendship. To me, much like Liz.
I put all of my heart and my soul and my love for my friend into the music that day. Was it difficult to keep it all together? Absolutely. But I knew Liz appreciated it, and the way I knew was through all of the people there that loved her like I did. I knew through their tears. I felt their loss. I felt their grief. And through the music, I shared my own.
And so life moves on. Here I am, almost a year later. You can still find me singing at church; pretty much every week for the majority of Sunday, and sometimes a few hours on Saturday. This particular weekend I will be helping to perform the music for Confirmation - in Catholic doctrine, Confirmation is the sacramental process by which a person becomes, officially, an adult member of the church. It’s a big deal – the Bishop in our diocese comes out to preside over the celebration.
I have the privilege of singing Liz’s song. Because it is her that I think of every time I sing it now, and for the rest of my life.
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