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

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.

Plant a Tree

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees,

books in the
 running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

–William Shakespeare

“C’mon, Shei (my nickname)! Let’s go to Bordines!” The tone in his voice was unmistakable—and a sure sign that spring had sprung. The local nursery was calling his name and he was ready to go and spend some serious money on plant life.

My father would commandeer my services several times a year. I’m not sure why I was the one chosen. My hunch is that I was the one least likely to complain. So there I would find myself, riding shotgun in the family station wagon headed to a large nursery.

Once we arrived, he would jump out of the car and begin eagerly perusing the aisles. I would grab one of those bulky, flat carts and attempt to keep up with his quick step. He would stop and survey the trees and shrubs and when he found one he wanted he would point to it.

“That one. That one is nice,” he would say.

I would walk over, bend down and hoist the plant onto the cart and we would continue on. In a matter of 20 minutes, the cart would be loaded to overflowing with plants of all sizes and shapes.

Oh, yeah, and we couldn’t forget the peat moss. Those giant bags of decomposed greenery that were never easy to maneuver. I would look at his face, smiling and eager, and I would look at the cartload of stuff and think, “There is something wrong with this picture. We are going to have a ton of work ahead of us.”

My father was notorious for working a lot—and loving it. He applied the same kind of fervor to his gardening as he did to his work in the emergency room. On our spring planting days, it wouldn’t be unusual for us to be in the garden digging, fertilizing, planting and watering until late into the evening. I think he purposely had the front yard adequately lit so that our workday could continue past sundown. After all, he was used to pulling 24-hour shifts in the ER—working a 12-hour day in the garden was practically a vacation.

As we worked, he would talk. Topics would range from what I wanted to do when I grew up, to travel ideas to singing songs to why it was important to put plastic down before we dumped rocks in strategic places according to his landscape plan—all intermixed with directions on where I should haul the next tree or plant to be inserted into the ground. Periodically, he would pause, stand up and admire a tree that he had just planted.

I mean, really admire it. For a really long time.

You know, chest out, hands on hips and dirt smudged on his smiling face. Sheer satisfaction. Five minutes might pass before anything was said.

Being the impatient youngster that I was and feeling the exhaustion of a long day, I would look up at the setting sun and then look over at my dad and think…it’s just a tree.

“Doesn’t that look nice?” he would ask with a gleam in his eye.

“Yeah, dad. Looks great,” I would reply.

By the end of the day, our yard would be transformed into something fitting of a famous garden in Paris. Those are not my words. Friends, family and neighbors passing by would pause at the masterpiece. Some would just shake their heads. But all would smile.

Back then, to me that garden represented a lot of work. Some completed—and a lot more on the way. Since he passed away, I’ve looked at that garden with different eyes. It was a place where I grew up—where I got to see a side of my dad that many didn’t. A place where stories were told and songs were sung. A place where I learned how to work until dark, plant a tree—and take the time to admire it. It was a place where history was made between my dad and I. Thank God I never complained.

I think he knew I would stop to really admire it one day. Somehow, I think he knew—one day I would need to.

The majestic garden with its flowers, bricks, rocks and fountains has since been overhauled and simplified. But what remains are six of the most beautiful Japanese maple trees I have ever seen. Proud. Dependable. History.

I now have a house of my own with three Japanese maple trees planted in the yard. Funny thing. After a hectic day of work, chores and life in general, I find myself sitting on my front step or in the back yard just staring at those trees—sometimes for an hour—silent and smiling inside and out.

And I know my son probably looks at me and thinks, “Mom, it’s just a tree.”

The wonder is that we can see these trees and not wonder more.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

Life Lesson #3

Plant a tree with someone you love.

Long after you are gone,

The lessons of work, life and love

Will go a long way to healing a soul.