[Faith-talk] Daily Thought for Tuesday, September 10, 2013

[Paul]

Well folks, it's the second Tuesday in September here as I write, and I hope that your day is going well, about to begin or went well, depending on when you read this little story.

"John's Song" by John Tibor of North Haven CT is the title of today's offering, rendered as follows:

A sweet buttery aroma filled the truck, an intoxicating potion of cinnamon, rye, wheat and pumpernickel.  Even today, some 40 years later, the smell of fresh-baked bread makes me think of John, and I can hear the tune he always sang.  Sweet and melodic.  Back then, I didn't know how to sing, didn't realize how music could make you happy inside.  It was John who taught me that.

It was my first summer job--my first paying job--helping John make deliveries from the bakery early in the morning.  I was 12 years old, too young to know much about money except that it was all my parents fought about, that and Dad's drinking.

When I first told my father about the job, he had barked, "You ain't settin' no alarm for 3:30 a.m. in this house, young man." I hardly slept that first night, fearful of missing my appointment.  I dashed down the stairs at the sound of John's truck and hopped in.

"Let's get this show on the road," he said.  He leaned into the large steering wheel.

"Thanks for giving me the job, sir," I said quickly.

"Stop with the formalities," he said.  You need to call me John, like a real partner."

Partner.  I watched him in the red glow from the truck's instrument panel.  He didn't seem to be as old as my dad, and he smelled like flour, not like beer and motor oil.  His voice was deep and raspy, like an old radio.

Our first stop was Gemma Supermarket, a few blocks east of our apartment building.  It was still dark out.  "I'll need you to take two large bags of hard rolls," he said.  They were so big I must have looked like a baked potato with feet.  But when John told the manager, "This is my assistant," it made me feel 10 feet tall.

We drove the city streets, watching the sunrise color the sky.  After each stop, John checked his watch.  At 7:30 a.m., we pulled to the curb of a green house with white shutters.  Birds on the lawn were pecking the damp ground for their breakfast.  I could tell by the bright look on John's face that this wasn't a delivery.  "Come on in," he said, "and I'll make you breakfast."

A dark-eyed woman met us at the door.  "She's been waiting for you," she said.  "I brought her onto the kitchen and sat her in the chair.  The pain's been mighty fierce."

"Lucy," John said, "This is Johnny, my new partner." That word again.  I guessed Lucy was some sort of caregiver.

I followed John through the living room and into the kitchen.  This was a real house with a fireplace, a rag rug, and a big window that framed a backyard of flowers and trees.  It was as if the sun had found its way onto every piece of furniture and made it sparkle.  And in the sunniest corner of the kitchen sat the love of John's life, his wife, Rose.  She was painfully thin with red hair, shaky hands and bony legs that could no longer carry her weight.  Not knowing what else to do, I gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Thank you for visiting," she said.  She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen and three freckles on her forehead like the stars of the Big Dipper.

John set about making pancakes and started to hum his favorite tune again.  I remember thinking it must be a hymn.  I was pretty sure of it.  I didn't know much about hymns.  I just knew that I shouldn't sing.  Anytime I ever tried, Dad said I sounded like a cat howling, so I kept my mouth shut.  Not John.  He didn't seem to know the words; he'd just sing it on an "Ah," but it made Rose happy.  She rocked in her chair and made a sound or two, as if she were holding the song by its tail and would never let it loose.

Every day went the same.  Board the truck at 3:30 a.m.  Make deliveries.  Stop in for breakfast at 7:30 with Rose, and then back on the road.  But he never did any of it without a song.  "You should sing, partner," he told me.  "It's good for your soul."

"I don't have a good singing voice," I told him.

"Nonsense," he said.  God gave everyone a voice.  And it does matter to Him how it sounds."

John always hummed the same tune, that mysterious hymn, no matter what.  No matter how many times we had to stop back at his house to drop off medicine for Rose or fix lunch or meet the doctor.  It's what kept him going, and although I never sang along, I got to know that tune pretty well.

One morning, when the summer was almost over, I asked him, "Are you happy?"

He put the key into the ignition but didn't turn it.  "That's an interesting question, young man," he said.  "I don't think you would ask it unless you felt some weight upon you."

He was right, of course.  My home situation was tough, and sometimes the only peace I knew was on that bread truck.

John pointed out the window with his crooked finger.  "Look." A violet-orange glow caught the edges of a thin swirl of clouds in the eastern sky.  "This is pure joy.  Every morning I get to see the rising of the sun, and every morning, it's different than it was the day before.  Right now, I can't imagine anything making me happier."

He grabbed the wheel and started up the truck.  "You should sing, Johnny boy.  It'll give you joy.  Singing is a gift from God, you know.  He likes to hear us sing."

When we arrived at his house for breakfast, Lucy met us at the door, wringing her hands, her eyes filled with worry.

"What is it?" John asked quickly.  He pushed the door open.

"She had a spell and had to lie down.  I called the doctor.  He's on his way."

"Johnny," he said, "could you wait outside and let me know when you see the doctor coming?"

I wasn't about to argue.  I ran outside and waited on the stoop.  Soon a silver car pulled up and out stepped a balding man in a blue-striped suit, carrying a leather satchel.

"They're inside, doc," I said and opened the door for him.

I kept listening for John's footsteps, wondering how long it would take.  We still had the rest of our deliveries to make and it was getting late.  Finally, I went inside.  Doc Adams had his jacket draped over a chair and had his stethoscope out.  Rose was lying on the sofa, her face like paper, her eyes fixed on John.  He put his hand on my shoulder and started to hum, but then his voice cracked and I felt his hand shake.

Do something now, I told myself.

I opened my mouth, not sure what would come out.  I'd hummed the tune a million times inside my head, but I wasn't even sure I could make a sound.  To my surprise the song came out, first in a muffled way, but then it got louder and louder.  Rose's eyes turned to mine and glistened.

With a tug on my collar, John cleared his throat and joined in, the two of us humming our first duet.

We never did finish our deliveries that day.  John called the bakery and told them what was going on, and they sent someone over for the truck.  I stayed with him until dinnertime, then he put me on the bus and waved goodbye.

I saw John a few more times after that and then we lost touch.  But I kept right on singing and never stopped.

Eventually, I joined a church choir, and my wife and I took to singing hymns together at home.  I've looked through the hymnal many times to try to find the words to that tune of John's but I've never found them.  Many people tell me that they have heard the song before--they just can't place it.

I've come to think, though, that some hymns don't need words.  The praise is in the music, lifting our souls to God.

Unless you live in North Haven, Connecticut, which I would suppose is a small community, and know Mr. Tibor, I guess we won't know the title of this song.  At any rate I hope you enjoyed this article.

And now may the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob just keep us safe, individually and collectively, throughout these last days in which we live.  Your Christian friend and brother, Paul