Hymns – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

I was not well prepared for it, seeing my father in this state.

Since my last in-person visit with him five months prior, the ugly villain Mesothelioma had altered the physical frame of this good man I called Dad.

The disease, spawned and fueled through years of exposure to asbestos would rob yet another household of yet another industrial craftsman before their time.

I was thankful for the good people of Hospice, seeing to it that Dad’s heart desire would be realized. Of spending his final days under the same roof at home with my mom, his wife of 57 years.

Herself weakened through added hardships of her own, my mother had grown unable to see to Dad’s needs on the off days between Hospice visits.

That large host of adult children whose role ultimately involves the care of an ailing parent comprises a sector of humanity occupying a precious, even sacred, space. Arranging now a mattress and bedding on the carpeted floor alongside Dad’s bed I was entering such a space. Difficult as some moments became, I afterward reflected on the special honor God had truly afforded me.

Music helped.

Taking up a spot on a simple stool at my father’s bedside I settled in with an acoustic guitar. The sessions of strumming and offering up melodies from yesteryear ignited a spark of life all their own. I sensed my dad’s heart being sweetly moved. Even as potent pain meds would escort him again and again to either edge of consciousness, musical pieces themselves introduced to the soul their own unique medicinal properties. Each of his favored set of lyrics – several he had been heard humming during my childhood – were, I prayed, bringing him an added measure of peace. The Old Rugged Cross – Victory in Jesus – Amazing Grace.

The folks specializing in personality types would classify me as melancholic. Occasionally, sitting perched on the guitar stool, I caught my mind projecting forward. Should the passing of my own closing days be drawn out over a bit of time, someone might think to flavor up the environment, smuggle a little music into the room.

In the company of sacred sounds, dad lay quiet. Soon he would begin bridging the divide, with God. Heaven songs to receive him.

“Good morning everyone. Let’s stand, shall we? There now, please open to. . .”

David Edward’s Welsh accent met the ear of Southerners like a tugboat whistle would a native Inlander. We took up our hymn books – Redemption Songs.

Easy to spot – nearly impossible in fact, to miss – the treasured little hardback, was drawn from clever book pouches fitted to the backside of sanctuary pews across the Tabernacle.

Hymns spanning centuries – their greater numbers sung by European worshippers rather than North American Yanks were enclosed in sturdy little, deep red hard-backs. They featured no musical notes, only hymn lyrics – some inspired this century, many earlier on – numbering near a thousand in all. Of this grand host of songs I had heard just a tiny fraction. Distinguished, endearing Professor Edwards continued.

“We want to lay aside the morning’s cares, and those of the evening to come. The Lord is here, meeting with us”, he stated with believable conviction. “Such a good and great and worthy Father.”

It was David Edwards himself who had introduced Redemption Songs to the Elim campus.

“His Spirit meets with us gathered now”, Edwards concluded. “Let’s worship him.”

The very first stanzas in a growing parade of lyrics – winsome and wise, deep and lofty – drew me in.

From O for a Thousand Tongues to O Worship the King, to Love Divine All Love Excelling. . .

Penned by past-slave-trader to fine-art composer, their enduring melodies rallied anew. The humble artists proved themselves masters of prose. And cadence. And holiness. Havergal, Spafford and Newton, Cowper, Scriven and Wesley – opening to us their seasoned wines.

Stepping afterwards from the hillside chapel in the modest New York hamlet, I sensed an inner beckoning. An invitation to drink deeply, richly, joyfully. From sacred, deeper-than-deep fountains of ancient truth. Set to music.

I somehow, in the moment, had the presence of mind to respond to the welcome, and not look back.

If a person had no access to the Bible throughout all his lifetime – but owned the collection of Charles Wesley’s Hymns alone, he would have all that is needed for salvation’s offer, the way of living fully in Christ and the eternal hope of heaven. – Geoffrey Hawksley, Missionary. British Assembly of God

Tag: Hymns

Sweet The Sound

Sing Oh Sing