One Dollar Coin

Daily writing prompt

Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?

When I was about 11, the music director at the church had put together a children’s choir for Easter. There weren’t many of us, to be sure; it was a small church. We rehearsed in the choir loft on Wednesdays.

On Easter, my friend Kay, who was in the choir, was set in charge of her cousin Denise. Denise was older than us, but she had developmental disabilities and the maturity of a six-year-old. Therefore, she ended up in the choir loft with us. The choir director, Mrs. Rose, said it was okay as long as Kay didn’t let Denise sing because Denise would “ruin the music”.

Denise was crushed. One of her favorite things to do was to sing. As I stood singing, I felt a creeping sense of remorse. This was God’s house, and we were denying Denise an opportunity to worship the one way she knew how. We had decided Denise wasn’t worthy to be heard. This didn’t sound like the God we learned about in Catechism. It didn’t matter to me that Denise would ruin our rehearsed music. I felt the music would be perfect if all our voices were heard.

At the end, Mrs. Rose gave each of us a dollar coin. In those days, a dollar coin was an impressive size and was considered special. I took mine, ashamed of myself for having been one that had rejected Denise. This was my fifty pieces of silver. Soon, I left the choir, and it didn’t last for long after that because there weren’t enough of us.

I tell this story, and most people don’t understand what the big deal was. After all, we had rehearsed for the opportunity, we had a specific sound that Mrs. Rose wanted to capture, and Denise would have ruined it. But I believed that God loved everyone, and that everyone was welcome at God’s table.

Later, much later, I became a Quaker because everyone is welcome at their table. And, if liturgy had been part of their services, they would have let Denise sing.

The Lost is Not So Lost


I have never learned to speak
the language of these slate-edged hills; 
silence speaking eloquently
things I almost understand

I think I have heard you walking
softly, barefoot and daydreaming;
wonder if you've heard me calling
out my name, an owl's whisper.
In the Catskills,
do the sleepy towns tell tales?
In the Catskills,
do the sleepy towns tell tales?

**********

This is all I remember of the song. I wrote it 30 years or so ago, and I really haven’t visited it since I wrote it. I couldn’t even remember this much earlier this morning. I wrote the words down somewhere, but I don’t remember where I put them.

I looked on my computer and I found it! I found it!

I have never learned to speak
The language of these slate-edged hills –
Silence speaking eloquently
Things I almost understand

CHORUS:
I think I have seen you walking
Softly, barefoot and daydreaming
Wonder if you hear me calling
Out your name, an owl’s whisper
In the Catskills,
Do the sleepy towns tell tales?
In the Catskills,
Do the sleepy towns tell tales?

Looking in the deep blue patience
Of your eyes, I falter, losing
All my words of consequence
Everything I meant to say

CHORUS

In the wind that blows around
The hills, I thought I felt your smile
Gather up my words again
And try to ask what you were thinking

CHORUS

I used to be a singer-songwriter until I divorced my guitarist. I had an okay voice; my guitarist played a semi-finger-picking style and wasn’t very disciplined. We were never going to be anything but those folksingers who attended open mic occasionally. But I loved the words.

Most of what I wrote was about crushes I got while spending my daily life in a small town in the foothills of the Catskills. I had lots of crushes; I have lots of songs to reclaim.

I can’t sing now; I’ve lost my voice in all but my talking range. I suppose I could get it back with practice, but it’s hard having the heart to practice when reminded of how much I’ve lost.

I started to sing this, and I could sing without obstruction to my voice, although it was not as strong as before. The lost is not so lost anymore.

Day 18 Lenten Meditation: Music

A long time ago, a friend told me, “I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in music. Music is a force holding together the universe.”

Even to this day, I can’t say he was wrong. The music of the spheres in the greatness of the universe, a lullaby sung by a mother, the communal experience of a mosh pit or a church service, the sad song on the playlist — all have the sense of the divine in them.

We turn to music for celebration, for comfort, for commemoration, for unity. We praise, we seduce, we tease, we shout for joy, we share our humanity, we lament — all through music. To quote my friend Greg again, “Music is a force holding together the universe.”