A few of us from Halfway House Male Voice Choir (not the best male voice choir in the world, but probably the most fun to sing with) were singing at the funeral service of one of the Choir's founder members today. The church was very full, and as ever there were all sorts of stories and recollections being shared as people chatted outside the church and at the reception. At a time like this (as one old boy told me) things that happened half a century ago and more seem as fresh in the mind as yesterday.
I found myself reflecting on how music is one of the things that, for me, make sense of it all. I always wake up with a song in my head, and I'd find it hard to imagine a world without music. Certainly, for me, many memories are borne on musical wings . . . there are snatches of songs that, when I hear them, instantly transport me back to this or that special time in my past.
We sang Gwahoddiad and Morte Christe, and Lily of the Valley, and I think we sang them well. I hope we did: I know our aim was to do our very best. And in the service we were instructed to 'lift up our eyes to the hills', as Psalm 121 was read, and I'm sure we all did just that, as we journeyed home, in my case around the lee of Middletown Hill. The beauty and grandeur of the world about us here speaks as eloquently as any choir of angels of the glory and the creativity of our God. But isn't it wonderful to reflect that this God also loves each one of us with a tenderness that is as though I, and you, were the only person he loves. We can't do that; but God does. Praise him, the Lord of life and light and peace.
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