Morning Thanks--a familiar voice

Some time ago, I unearthed an old cassette tape that held a sermon my grandfather preached in December of 1951, in Oostburg, Wisconsin, the town where I was born and reared. Years ago, my uncle gave it to me, a man who himself has been gone for decades.

I knew that sermon was delivered in my hometown, the church where I spent my first seven years or so; I knew where he was preaching when, halfway through the exhortation, a train went by on the tracks two hundred yards west. It was an evening service. I may have been there--I was only three years old.

I plugged it into an old Walkman when I took a walk. It was terribly cold out, but I walked almost three miles, warmed by an ancient sermon that sounded almost exactly like I would have guessed it might have. I never heard my grandfather preach, at least not that I remember. He baptized me—that much I know. I was six when he died.

But the moment I heard his voice, I recognized it. Honestly, somehow, I knew that voice as his. I have no clue where the reservoir of memories lies in the brain or how wide and encompassing it is, nor what function stands guard to let what specific memories in. But the pitch and timber were there somehow. Very strange. Almost eerie, a voice I'd almost never heard, but remembered completely.

My grandfather was no stemwinder. Had he lived in the days of the megas, his name would have been well down the list--"Minister of Visitation" maybe. Still, I don’t think I could have enjoyed that hour more than I did, listening to a worship service three quarters of a century old, led by an old preacher, a Dominie, holding forth in a voice I recognized, in some ways, to be, well, something of my very own.

And for that, this morning, I’m thankful.