From age 13 to 17, I was a church musician and I often miss it. It's not every adult choir director who would let a teenager play in his band, but Bro. Harold Hudson was more than a man. He was a second father to me. As the percussionist and backup drummer for his New Covenant Choir, I got to see many parts of the country, made life-long friends, and learned skills that I sadly don't get to use much anymore.
Last week, I was part of a worship service honoring Harold. Seeing him this time was different. Harold is now in the depths of Alzheimer's disease and I can't be entirely certain he knew what the evening was or who it was for, but I hope the music he helped create reached whatever part of him is still with us.
The experience of walking into a church where I, for all intents and purposes, grew up was like going into a time warp. Not much had changed about the building, but we were all older and many of us have gone on different religious paths. Still, we all came back to honor Bro. Harold. He meant so much to us.
It hasn't been that long since we had a choir reunion. The last time, maybe seven or eight years ago, Harold was in fine fettle and still leading his choir. That night will always be burned in my memory because one of my better poems emerged from the experience.
That night, I encountered a young lady who I knew from way back when and found myself enamored with her compassion, beauty, and joy. Like always, I avoided any attempts at getting to know her more now that we were adults and I left, beating myself up for at least not asking for her phone number.
That night, the poem "Lauren Bursting through the Shadows" poured out of me. It captured all the emtoions of that evening, I think, rather well-- the people I once knew, the nostalgia of which my generation is rather fond, and Lauren's radiance amongst the ghostly figures surrounding us.
It wasn't long after I wrote the poem that Lauren died tragically in a car accident. When preparing the publication of Eons and Other Love Poems, the poem most certainly had a place in the pages, with an official dedication to her. Although billed as a collection of love poems, they were mostly ones of unrequited love and failings. But, amongst those more despairing pieces, "Shadows" was a respite, though reading the original version now, it had smatterings of the self-loathing I was going through at the time and I've included some updates below to reflect more hope, less worry.
When published, I was able to bring copies of the book to her grieving mother and I spent an afternoon with her, remembering Lauren and holding each other. I read her the poem aloud and we both cried.
At last weekend's reunion, her mother was there and she reiterated how much that afternoon (and the book) meant to her. She also told me she had prayed over the book many times for me, hoping I would come out of the depression I was still in the midst of the afternoon I brought her her copies. I reprint it here as a testimony to Lauren though I must admit the poem is also about the faces of many who, when grown, show maturity, grace, and forgiveness in this world sorely lacking all three elements.
Lauren Bursting through the Shadows
I
Swimming through a sea
of ghosts, even the pats
and squelches of old fingers
from ladies in finery seem
heavy, cementing the past.
I have not seen these people
in ages. Their faces to me are
shadows of what they were.
Even though they’re still alive,
they’re not as alive as they were
fourteen years ago, back when
all our dreams were still possible
and hadn’t died the death of
degrees and offices and aching
joints and ruptured muscles.
I wish I had a little left of that
confident little bastard I used
to be in me. If I did, I might
still see the world as a place
I might conquer instead of inhabit.
It was that confident young man
they knew. They don’t know they're
hugging a shell, someone emptier
than Christ’s tomb—someone for whom
the romance of it all has died a little.
Old faces, grey and aloof, pass on
and, in the dim light of the church,
a figure appears that I know and
do not know. Like some others, I never
noticed her when she was a child,
But as a woman—
II
She glistens from the corners of her
face, ranking with beige beauties
I knew and know. Her eyes are more
alive now than they ever seemed.
This woman speaks to me.
We hug and I say the only words
I can muster. “You look beautiful,”
which was, and is, the truth. I assume
she has not heard me for she mutters
“You too”—a nicety, perhaps a slip.
Then, the stumble of the questions
we all ask—the who (are we now?)
the what (are we doing?) the why
(has it been so long?) and finally
where (the hell are you now?)
I have not thought seriously of
anyone—mostly out of pity,
and somewhat out of sadness.
I choke. And when I have to
answer I’m now two hours away,
My eyes turn three shades of
“Jesus, I wish I weren’t; wouldn’t it
be nice to be near you and your
daughter and know you and wonder
if we could be happy?”
But, then, I think—how silly. What a
notion—not just finding someone
(how daft would that be?) but some-
one who sparkles at the corners of
her eyes and mouth and sees I'm human.
The moments after one breaks off
a conversation always require a
certain amount of resettling—you have
to get your bearings back. But, mine
weren’t coming back to me.
I walked out of the church dazzled and
certain that if I did not live so far away
from her, I might run in front of her car
as she pulled out of the parking lot and begged
her to stop everything to come with me.
Finishing this poem, I wonder how much
of this romantic piffle will be understood,
assured that people will assume I can’t
be serious in my sincerity. But, they do not
know the hours I spent reading Byron.
They don’t know that I once believed
in the things that seem infantile to those
who grow up and grow jaded. Maybe
that confident little bastard isn’t so far
away. Maybe I can conjure him.
Maybe he can take the two hours’
distance and eradicate all the cities and
towns between Lauren and I so we can
be right next door and wave to each other
from a city street and start fresh.
Maybe she’ll read this poem and balk.
Maybe I’ll be embarrassed in the morning.
But, maybe, I awakened a sleeping
child in me who can still work magic and
pull brilliant color from the shadows
and bring light back to the dark places.
Comments