In sweet communion, Lord, with Thee
I constantly abide;
My hand Thou holdest in Thy own
To keep me near Thy side.
To say my mother valued spiritual talk is gross understatement. It's probably fair to say she made some weighty judgments on the basis of the length and intensity of that kind of confessional conversation. My dad wasn't as spiritually hungry as his beloved, but he lived with her and for her, really, for so many years that he couldn't help becoming her spiritual consort.
My father-in-law wasn't given to my mother's need of soulful reassurance. As far as I know, he didn't ever push spirituality into what my mother presumed to be otherwise spiritually empty conversation. Their respective "family altars" were largely similar--Sabbath worship, twice; a daily regimen of prayer and scripture at meal times; prayer and maybe some devotional reading before bed. But their expressions of spirituality were day-and-night really.
Thy counsel through my earthly way
Shall guide me and control,
And then to glory afterward
Thou wilt receive my soul.
His preacher smiled when we showed him the requests Dad had written out. "Oh, we never sing that one anymore--and I always loved it," he said, looking over at my wife.
To live apart from God is death,
'Tis good His face to seek;
My refuge is the living God,
His praise I long to speak.
My father-in-law wasn't given to my mother's need of soulful reassurance. As far as I know, he didn't ever push spirituality into what my mother presumed to be otherwise spiritually empty conversation. Their respective "family altars" were largely similar--Sabbath worship, twice; a daily regimen of prayer and scripture at meal times; prayer and maybe some devotional reading before bed. But their expressions of spirituality were day-and-night really.
Thy counsel through my earthly way
Shall guide me and control,
And then to glory afterward
Thou wilt receive my soul.
I shouldn't have been surprised as I was to find "In Sweet Communion, Lord, with Thee," scribbled in on that half sheet of lined paper we found stuck in one of his four Bibles, some handwritten suggestions for his funeral. "Sweet Communion" should have been one of my mother's top choices, but there that old hymn was in his notes.
His preacher smiled when we showed him the requests Dad had written out. "Oh, we never sing that one anymore--and I always loved it," he said, looking over at my wife.
I felt exactly the same.
Whom have I, Lord, in heaven but Thee,
To Whom my thoughts aspire?
And, having Thee, on earth is nought
That I can yet desire.
Oddly enough, I don't think of either of my parents when I hear that old melody, but, like his pastor, I am drawn back to my childhood church, where the preacher's wife, a stately woman, tall and maybe a bit gaunt, sang out those lyrics in her inimitable alto voice as fully spirited as any preacher's wife could, every last psalm and hymn and spiritual song, always a half-note flat, my mother used to say. She judged such things more closely than I did.
That woman, the preacher's wife, the juffrouw, looked as stern as any caricature Calvinist ever did or could, but she wasn't: she was tall and square-shouldered, but soft and sweet and, in my memory, always smiling. When she sang in church--at least in my estimation--she was loving every musical minute.
Though flesh and heart should faint and fail,
The Lord will ever be
The strength and portion of my heart,
My God eternally.
We'll never know who Dad might have thought of when he heard that verse, whether or not he even had someone visualized in mind or memory. What verse four says is all I need to read because with him at 100 years and two months, flesh certainly did "faint and fail," and, even though he never said so, I've absolutely no doubt that his "God eternally" was "the strength and portion" of his heart.
Whom have I, Lord, in heaven but Thee,
To Whom my thoughts aspire?
And, having Thee, on earth is nought
That I can yet desire.
Oddly enough, I don't think of either of my parents when I hear that old melody, but, like his pastor, I am drawn back to my childhood church, where the preacher's wife, a stately woman, tall and maybe a bit gaunt, sang out those lyrics in her inimitable alto voice as fully spirited as any preacher's wife could, every last psalm and hymn and spiritual song, always a half-note flat, my mother used to say. She judged such things more closely than I did.
That woman, the preacher's wife, the juffrouw, looked as stern as any caricature Calvinist ever did or could, but she wasn't: she was tall and square-shouldered, but soft and sweet and, in my memory, always smiling. When she sang in church--at least in my estimation--she was loving every musical minute.
Though flesh and heart should faint and fail,
The Lord will ever be
The strength and portion of my heart,
My God eternally.
We'll never know who Dad might have thought of when he heard that verse, whether or not he even had someone visualized in mind or memory. What verse four says is all I need to read because with him at 100 years and two months, flesh certainly did "faint and fail," and, even though he never said so, I've absolutely no doubt that his "God eternally" was "the strength and portion" of his heart.
Whether he chose that old hymn for its words or its melody, or for his memories, is a question we'll never answer. But when we sang it at his funeral, at his request, I swear he was there, as was my mom, my dad, and the juffrouw, all richly blessed by singing through that old number once again with us and the preacher. They were all there too. My mother undoubtedly happy to hear me singing about all that "sweet communion."
To live apart from God is death,
'Tis good His face to seek;
My refuge is the living God,
His praise I long to speak.
For my father-in-law, it was a surprising choice, but a good one, a marvelously good one, for which, this morning, in bringing us all together, I am greatly thankful.
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