Thoughts from the journey… Excerpts from a day in the life of Sherry McLaughlin

How to Have an Open House

Let me live in my house by the side of the road, where the race of men go by;

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish—so am I;

Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat, or hurl the cynic’s ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,

And be a friend to man.

—Sam Walter Foss

My earliest recollection of being alive was when we lived in a tiny apartment on the East side of Detroit. My father and mother worked opposing shifts at Doctor’s Hospital, located a block or so away from our home in the Pasadena Apartments on Jefferson Ave. I remember it being small and the hallways dark. I even recall having to step over a drunken guy who used to pass out in front of our door occasionally.

Considering my father was born and raised in a one-bedroom home, the apartment was a step up. It was actually big enough to entertain friends and family—and he didn’t hesitate to invite people over.

By the time I was 7, we moved to the northwest suburbs of Detroit, into a house that must have felt like a castle to my father—a large, gray brick home with 5 bedrooms, 2 ½ baths and a basement. Each of us kids had our own room, fully furnished and tailored to our personalities.

Being slight in stature, Filipinos don’t usually require a lot of square footage to be comfortable. They might long for a bigger kitchen, but the bedroom situation is often times negotiable. Truth be told, our family of six didn’t really occupy all of those rooms—at least not in the traditional sense. On the nights my father worked a 24-hour shift, all of us kids would pile onto the king size bed in my parent’s room.

You might wonder how we all fit. We simply oriented our bodies horizontally across the bed—you can do that when everyone stands less than 5 feet tall. Sometimes, I woke up with an arm lying across my face or my toe stuck in someone’s mouth—but the tradition continued and it didn’t occur to any of us that sleeping in another room would even be an option. When my oldest brother broke the 5-foot barrier, he simply laid some blankets on the floor and continued to occupy the same room as the rest of us.

That left a lot of empty rooms in our house and what good was a house with empty rooms?

I don’t think it was so much the empty room situation as the generosity of my father’s heart that began to fill those spaces. First it was an uncle that moved in—he was going to dental school and needed a place to stay. Years later, I found out that my father not only provided him a rent-free space, he also footed part of his college tuition.

Then, there was another uncle—well, he wasn’t really an uncle, we just called him that. That’s another thing about Filipino families—if you meet someone that is Filipino, male and a little older, you call him Uncle. If he is Filipino, male and a lot older, you call him Lolo (grandpa). The same goes for Filipino females, you just change the titles.

I’m not sure why this particular uncle came to stay. All I know is that he occupied my younger brother’s room, and he used to play the guitar and sing. We would all huddle outside the door and giggle as he sang, “Sunshine on my shoulder makes me happy.” There’s nothing like hearing John Denver with a Filipino accent. Really. Nothing like it.

People would come and go. Some would stay for a week. Most would stay for months at a time. A room was offered to anyone who needed a place to stay, a helping hand or a listening ear.

The most memorable houseguests were a family from California. That’s right, an entire family. Turns out, the mom and dad were having marital problems. Somehow, my parents caught wind of it, an invitation was extended and before I knew it, I had 4 new brothers and sisters. They arrived with their mother—two boys and two girls—about the same ages as my siblings and me.

What fun that was! It was sort of like the Brady Bunch, only there were eight of us—and we had better tans. Imagine the first day of school. The bus pulled up in front of our house and six kids came flying out of the house, with the two little ones waving good-bye. The bus driver almost had a heart attack. My father not only shouldered the added grocery bill, he treated those kids like they were his own. Bought them presents, threw birthday parties, took them on family vacations and paid for their tuition at our local church school.

Late at night, I would find my parents and the mother of these kids sitting at the kitchen table. I didn’t know exactly what they were talking about, but their tones were hushed and sometimes there were tears.

A few months into their stay, the father came to visit—and moved in as well. Two complete families under one roof—now there were four adults at the kitchen table late at night in deep discussion. It would be years before I realized what my father had done. He was not only a physician and a provider—he evidently was also a marriage counselor.

Nine months later, the family packed up their car in preparation for their journey back to California. Relationships mended. Hearts healed.

I remember that day. They tried to leave once, but as we all kneeled in the family room to pray for their safe travel, we were all crying so hard that they ended up staying one more night and leaving the next morning.

We still hear from them. The kids are all grown up and they have kids of their own. We’ve attended weddings and graduations. One is an architect, another a civil engineer and the two girls are raising beautiful, happy families of their own. The mother and father? Still together after all of these years.

When my father became ill, it was this very couple that dropped what they were doing and flew to Michigan—to cook, clean and sit beside my dad and talk. They did it several times, without hesitation. When my father passed away, I remember seeing the father of this family sitting alone in the corner of the funeral parlor. Broken. Sobbing. Mourning the loss of a friend who was closer than a brother.

I went over and put my arm around him and he looked up at me. In that silent gaze, I felt the depth of his gratitude to the man that saved his family—and his life. It made me proud of where I came from. I will never forget that moment.

I think God grants people big houses for a reason. When it boils down to it, people require about three square feet of space to not feel violated. What you do with the rest of the square footage is entirely up to you. You can fill it with furniture that never gets used. Or you can open your house to the ones that need some food, shelter and a kitchen table.

If you choose the latter, there will be relationships formed and history made that will outclass and outlast the best furniture money could buy. And if you are ever witness to that kind of generosity, you are given a gift that you feel compelled to pass on.

It changes lives. It changes you. Trust me, I know.

Life Lesson #5

Have an open house.

Whether you charge rent or not,

The lessons learned and relationships built

Will be more than enough to cover the cost…

For a lifetime.

Sing a Song

“The aim and final end of all music should be none other than the glory of God and the refreshment of the soul.” –Johann Sebastian Bach

I’m a closet singer. You know, the kind of person who can really cut loose and get into the music—only in my car or an empty house. My dad, however, was quite the opposite. He was known for his beautiful tenor voice. His vocal chords served him well—right down to finding him a wife.

As the story goes, my mother was the pianist for the church choir my dad sang in. Each time they would meet for practice, my father would have one eyeball on the director, and one on my mother. It wasn’t long before they knew they were meant to be together. He was 16 and she was 14 and ten years later, they would be married.

They spent their honeymoon on a cruise ship and, of course, my father signed up for the talent show. I saw a picture of his performance. Standing boldly on stage, belting out a tune with my mom accompanying him on the piano, it was a sign of the future. That would be the first of many performances as a married couple.

There was hardly a day that went by that I didn’t hear him humming or singing. First thing in the morning, he would sing a tune in the shower. Funny thing is, rarely did he ever finish an entire song or know every single word. But that didn’t stop him. When he came to a part he forgot, he continued the melody, and without missing a beat, would fill in the missing words with a sound like, “Rrra, rrra, rrra…” Just like it was meant to be like that.

My brother and I often accompanied him to choir practice on Friday evenings. On the ride home, he would lead us out in song. You have never heard the Hallelujah Chorus until you’ve heard it sung in a station wagon with a tenor and two pre-adolescent kids. At least, you’ve never heard it quite like that. I imagine that Handel would be mortified. But the funny thing is, in the midst of the noise, God was glorified.

By the time I became pregnant with my son, my father had already become quite ill. Legally blind, battling congestive heart failure and kidney failure as complications of diabetes, we were praying he would live to see his first grandchild. I remember the day I brought Joshua over for his first visit with my dad. Feeble from a recent hospital stay, my father held up my son closely so he could see his face, and began to sing with a voice untouched by disease. It is a moment I will never forget.

Two and half years later, my son was diagnosed with autism. Amidst the confusion of such a revelation, it was my father who repeatedly said to me, “Don’t worry, Shei. He is smart. Just keep singing to him.” And with that he would hoist his grandson into his lap and shower him with music.

My son was virtually silent for the first 4 years of his life. He would ignore the human voice—you could literally be standing right next to him calling his name and not receive a response. Some thought he was deaf. But to those I would say, “Sing a song.” And the minute they did—he would look up and smile. A majority of his speech as a young child was in the form of music. My son, who is not conversational, could sing entire songs with perfect pitch and enunciation. It isn’t uncommon for him to dance in the middle of the sidewalk or tilt his head in appreciation of a tune. He snaps his fingers to songs on the car radio.

He feels the music—just like my dad did. In a world of silence, it speaks to his soul.

“Music expresses that which cannot be said

and on which it is impossible to be silent.”—Victor Hugo

Music is a universal language, just like food. We can all relate to it and even if we don’t understand the words, somehow we can understand the emotion. It was once said that, “Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”

There is something healing about being able to belt out a tune with expression and fervor, even if you feel you can’t carry one. I believe it is one of the reasons cars and elevators were made to be sound proof. And if you are one of those who neither owns a car or rides in elevators alone regularly, there is always the woods or a mountain trail, where your only audience is God. He gave you that voice—I bet He’d enjoy hearing it every now and then.

Some would say my father suffered. But if you asked my dad, I’m sure he would have told you that he was blessed. His heart might have gone bad, and his eyesight lost. His legs were amputated and he was left bed ridden. But in the end, he still had his voice—that glorious tenor voice. A gift to him. A gift to this world.

It’s been years since I’ve heard him sing, but when I hear one of his favorite songs, his voice resonates in my head. This world is a better place because of my dad and his voice.

He sang for himself. He sang for others. He sang with a passion fueled by gratitude. Everyday. Often and loud—as if to make sure that the God that granted him that voice could enjoy the music, too.

Life Lesson #4

Don't let cars and sound proof elevators go to waste.

Sing a song.

Everyday.

Sing with gratitude, even if you don't feel like it.

I promise you, God loves to hear it...

And the sound just might touch a few lives on its way to the heavens.