song
Robby caught me by surprise the other day when he said it, “Dad, I like how sometimes the songs in church give me adrenalin.” I knew exactly what it meant, and I started to cry. I know that feeling too.
What is it about song that stirs something so deep in our souls that its memory can make us cry?
I remember one day when Robby asked if I would play “that song.” Words and memory fail to recall exactly how he worded it, but it was one of those cute and innocent phrases that mark the early years. He didn’t know the name of the song, but whatever it was he said conveyed perfectly what he meant.
“Jesu dulcis memoria.”
He had no idea what the words meant. To be honest, neither did I, but in spite of our ignorance, something about the song captivated a young boy and his father. So I selected the song and pressed play.
It was hauntingly beautiful. I’ve heard the phrase before, but perhaps I have never fully understood it. I know I can’t describe it, and yet something compels me to try.
A sucking sound, the breath of a chorus of singers, breaks the silence. Then in unison, two voices ring. Unfamiliar words sung in perfect time, a melody and harmony fill the silence, fill the room, fill heaven and earth. My mind is transfixed. The soprano voice is clear and unwavering, like a single note struck on a piano, it rings and vibrates and carries. The alto reminds me of a Gregorian chant. But in both voices, in the harmony, there is a beauty that I cannot even begin to describe. When their lips close around a note, the silence pierces my heart, and I catch myself holding my breath. I hold my breath as my heart pounds in my ears, until a familiar gasp marks the start of a new line. Together the voices rise again, perfectly resonating, as if they would lull every notion of my existence, every sense and feeling, into a peace that passes all understanding. Just when the bliss of the moment will make my heart burst, the song rises. It lifts my soul farther, higher. The song fills a space that is even wider and deeper.
Unrecognizable words wrapped in notes I’d never heard reminded me of something, a melody I feel like I have sung since my earliest recollection and yet cannot remember. It lies in the shadows, just outside the jagged boundary of light that memory casts in the dark recesses of my mind.
The track only lasted fifty-five seconds, and after it is done I find myself confused. Do I wish it lasted forever, or am I so content, more so than I have ever been, that I cannot stand to play it again?
As oft as I’ve replayed it, I cannot tell if it is two voices or twenty. The voices are unaccompanied, A Capella.
Two voices unmarred by any musical instruments pierced my soul. And somehow, they also resonated in the small heart of a young boy.
I’m brought back to the moment by the two voices of my youngest sons. In my rear view mirror, I see a shock of blonde hair with steel blue eyes staring at me.
There was something similar in both the song and the gaze of the boy looking at my reflection.
And in this moment, I am taken to a lonely hill far away, where a song erupts from the heart and exits the mouth of a boy that must be about the same age. A little boy named David whose words capture in haunting beauty the same meaning of the words in the song I just played, words I don’t understand. Words I can only describe as a cry.
I don’t understand Latin, but I know exactly what they mean.
Note: It is the cover by Audrey Assad on a Tenth Avenue North album of the classic song Jesu Dulcis Memoria that Robby meant when he asked for that song: https://youtu.be/NUKWyvlZ6r8
