Hope is the Thing with Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
 
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm -
 
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
~ Emily Dickinson

There is such a joy for me to sing and such joy to sing in a choir. My son, Sam has a truly amazing voice. Basso profundo. Magnificent. Truly. I remember Sam’s junior year in high school when I asked him for a specific Christmas gift: please join me in singing in the NDPC’s adult church choir. It was 2018, and such a difficult time in our country’s story. It felt like lots of talking over talking and shouting over shouting. There wasn’t much listening. I wanted Sam to learn to listen for another voice, I wanted him to learn the gift of singing harmony. He joined the choir and has kept singing — each song extending my Christmas.
 
Now that I've moved to California I’ve joined three choirs – our church choir at PBUMC, the San Diego Women’s Chorus and Thresholds (a choir that sings for folks in hospice). These are three very different groups of singers, kind souls all around. When musicians perform, there is a moment that holds the most amazing space. Unique and precious, each time. There is this moment before, this moment when the director stands a little taller, holds up her/his hands to communicate that we are just about to begin, as we all take a collective breath…and what happens next in that instant for me is …
 
…is everything.

In that instant right before our first note is sung, in that instant there is… gift. Grace. Love. Yearning. Laughter. Tears. Darkness. Light. In that instant there is .. hope.
 
This December continues to feel so very tender. Friends and family doing all they can to get through these hard, hard days. On phone calls and facetimes I hear of care plans and tender visits with precious, loved ones. Doctors’ visits and news of not yet, or I’m so sorry. Prayers and more prayers. Tears and more tears. Holding on and letting go. Desperately trying to hold on and overwhelmed by what it means to let go.   
 
The Women’s Chorus will be singing our winter concert on the 17th. We’re doing some fun pieces. And we're performing one song that I probably won’t be able to sing. If I can find the breath to sing, my hunch is there will be tears streaming down my face. We’re singing the most precious arrangement of “Hope is the thing with feathers” by Susan LaBarr. She somehow has been able to join Emily Dickinson’s poem with her haunting, redeeming melody. I felt it the first time we sang it through, and I know when it comes time to perform on the 17th, this thing with feathers will be perching right there, in the middle of my heart.
 
Especially this year we know that the world is aching and I am feeling so much grief with and for my circle of family and friends. Especially this Advent, I am counting on Hope. This thing with feathers…this one who perches right there in my soul and yours. Hope sings the tune not needing the words. Hope knows the hard places of our struggles of being human. It knows (somehow) that we humans can’t always find the words we wish we could find. Hope knows (somehow) that we humans forget, and what we forget just might be what we are yearning for to lead us back home. And so hope waits and stays with us.
 
There is a great joy for me that (somehow) Emily Dickinson believed – and most all of the time I do as well -- hope never stops. Never stops at all. As long as we can hold on, as long as we have breath, I believe there is in us, a song, a tune that knows hope’s way of never stopping. At all.
 
And so, this Advent, I will be singing. And you can count on the fact that tears will be accompanying me throughout. This year I sing for family and friends who are tendering making their way in and through. I will be singing for my parents and grands who years ago introduced me to singing in the church choir. I will be singing for Sam and all those who will be singing long after my song is an echo. May there be for all of us, a moment or two or three even when you are aware that you are joining other souls, catching a collective breath, turning in the same direction, knowing that we will (somehow) -- like my friend, Jan would say -- be walking toward the dawn.

​Thank you, Shelly for this most amazing picture

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