13 Dec Thanksgiving

It was a dark, cold, December evening when we were called to sing for Lucy. There was no further treatment for the metastasized breast cancer that would take her life. She had come home to die with her family around her.  They had put off Thanksgiving until they could bring Lucy home, and so this evening was the preparation for their Thanksgiving time. The house was well lit when we arrived.  Five of us climbed up onto the wooden porch and tried the locked door. We could see inside through the window, and watched a kitchen full of people, laughing and talking. Pies were cooling on the counter. Many hands were cutting up squash and peeling potatoes. A television was on somewhere in the house. Children were running through the rooms.  We knocked again and again. At first timidly, then harder and louder until someone finally came to the door, apologizing for not hearing us.  “It is noisy in here!”  Lucy’s daughter said. “I’m terribly sorry. Come on in. It’s so cold out there.”  

As the other singers took off boots and coats and found a place in the mudroom to leave piles of winter garb, I went in ahead to locate Lucy. I found her lying on the couch in the family room. The kitchen, still bustling with activity, was behind us. The room was cozy with soft dark furniture. Lucy was settled into a warm couch corner, books of prayers beside her. She reached for my hand when I kneeled beside the couch. Her eyes brightened as she told me she was not afraid to die and that it was her strong faith that carried her through her journey with cancer. Her belief in God was helping her find strength and courage as she faced her death. She was beautiful, almost translucent with pale skin and wisps of reddish grey hair splayed across her pillow. She wore a loose cotton shift.  Her hands looked tender and young. Soft spoken but very clear, she seemed frail and strong, all at once.   

No one else in the family seemed to know or mind that we had come, so the singers and I moved around Lucy to sing, no matter what else was going on in the house. The three women—two altos, one soprano, knelt down beside the couch. The two men, a bass and a tenor, stood behind us. We started to sing, “I will guide thee, with mine eyes.  All the way from earth to heaven, I will guide thee, with mine eyes.” Lucy closed her eyes gently.  

The family sounds grew quiet. They put down knives and spoons.  They moved towards the family room. The children grew quiet and came to perch on other couches or the floor. Lucy’s husband sat at her feet and rested his hand on her leg. The daughters and sons-in-law found seats on the couches. If quiet was something you could hold in your hand, this quiet would be held in cupped palms, to be poured over the heads of this family like a baptism. It was a call to gather. To slow down, pause, and notice where we all were.  

The entire family gathered around Lucy, listened to the songs, and listened while she spoke about each song and how it affirmed her faith. Tears were shed in reverence. This sing became a moment of giving thanks among this family, for Lucy and her life and for each other.

Kathy Leo, excerpted from On the Breath of Song