Stories

A Songbird Who Won’t Sing

Music, Stories, Water Between Us

Baydzar, a girl with a gift that feels like a curse–songs that take her home, but home isn’t there. “Once more,” she tells her sister, as they sail away. “And then never again.”

But someone hears her. He doesn’t know the pain in the words, only the beauty in her voice.

“Sing for me sometime?” he asks. “Sing with us tonight?”

“Tell him I sing when I am homesick.”

Later,

“You like the music?” He waits for a half smile. “Ask if she would like to sing. Something from her homeland.”

“Tell him it’s getting late. I should go.”

A couple days and a few head-shakes later,

“Baydzar, do you ever sing? Or is it that you don’t want to sing for me? And that’s all right.”

She draws bitter water from the depths of her hurt and draws a line in the sand.

No translator this time, and no holding back. Words fly like arrows. She means well, she speaks right and hits him right where it stings.

He swings truth like a fist. “…And here you talk about all the wicked things they did to you, all they took from you, but the one thing they didn’t take, what do you do?—you bury it! Talk to me about walls? God didn’t give you that voice so you could lecture me!”

Wounds from a friend.

Deep down, she knows.

Bird of the forest, born in a tree, why won’t you sing in a cage for me? Maybe she doesn’t want to remember flying. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember sky. Maybe she’s in a cage ’cause she’s not singing. Maybe she is too afraid to try.

She picks out the shards of truth from their wounded words. She lets his words hit deep. And she’ll never forget.

He was wrong about some things, but he was right about her gift.

“Who will speak?” she asked her sister. “Will you?”

“Some things are best not spoken of.”

“Don’t I know?”

Words can do marvelous and scary things. His words set her free.

Even a bird with a broken wing can learn to fly.

Little songbird, don’t hide it away. Show your heart to the world. Never stop singing. Don’t you ever stop singing. One of these days you’ll believe when we say, “You’re a songbird, God made you that way.”

-Ben Abraham (Songbird)

Did you know that in 2003 Ben Abraham decided that he never wanted to sing again? Tired of trying to impress people and playing popular music in order to make a name for himself, he laid aside his gift.

Four years went by, and Ben didn’t make music. Then he met a thirteen-year-old girl hospitalized for anorexia. Moved by her story, he responded the only way he knew how. He picked up an instrument and wrote her this song.

He’s been singing ever since.

A Forgetful One

Outdoors, Stories

“Bouldering tonight?” She flicked a twig into the fire’s orange belly. “I thought we could tackle the shelf below Ramshead.”

He pulled a thoughtful stick from the flames. “Okay. Visibility’s pretty good tonight.” His words made curls of vapor against the darkening sky. “You think you’ll be warm enough?”

“I’ll be fine once we get moving.”

He nodded and tossed his torch back into the fire.

“I did mean to bring a hat, though.”

“I know,” he said, pouring her some coffee. “It’s in the truck.”

A smile. “Thanks.” She caught the laughter in his eyes. “I know. I’m really bad about that, aren’t I?”

He gazed at her across the firelight, answered with a wink, and took a sip from his mug.

By Water and Wind

Music, Stories

…Then the Firstborn came and sat on the grass beside the prince. They both stared into the chasm for a little while. The Firstborn could feel his brother’s sorrow. He held out a ray of sunlight. “You know, there is one who can cross, who can go back and forth.”

A glimmer of hope skimmed over the prince’s face. “I knew, somehow, there must be. Who is it? Who can be our Helper?”

“The Wind.” He breathed over the watery chasm and was gone.

—

The animation in this music video has me like a child. “Again! Play it again!”

Little sailboats powered by water and wind…

Beauty and whimsy in my eyes, but I think my favorite sight met my ears when the sunset fell into the ocean. Wonder is seven words painting a masterpiece on the canvas of my mind.

Dahlias

Outdoors, Stories

Meredith picked her way through the terracotta shards—the bright hope of a little garden shattered in the wind. She approached Thelma on the bench and shifted her feet a little, settling into the weight of silence.

“There’s coffee inside, if you want some.”

Thelma kept gazing off into the distance like a bronze statue.

“I could bring a mug out for you.”

Thelma didn’t blink. Meredith studied her for a minute, hoping, and then started to turn away.

“Them was dahlias,” said Thelma.

“I’m sorry?”

“Them was dahlias you walked through.”

“The flowers?”

“My Davy planted those. Fourteen years ago.” Thelma watched Meredith turn over a bit of gravel with her shoe. “Go on, sit down,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “I don’t bite.”

“It’ll probably take about eight to ten weeks.”

Thelma nodded. “That’s what the man said.”

“Somebody donated brand new cabinets, new carpet for the bedroom, tile for the bathroom. It’ll take a little while, but I think you’ll love it.”

Thelma reached for a terracotta shard at her feet and fingered it slowly.

“I’m grateful, Miss Meredith.”

“We’re very sorry about…” Meredith pulled up short as Thelma turned away to hide the glisten in her eyes. “We’re very sorry. As I said, eight to ten weeks. In the meantime…”

“I’ll sit out here when the weather’s nice. Most days it is.”

“It’ll be awfully noisy, lots of people in and out.”

“Never bothered me. People in and out. Kids hollerin’.”

“Still, I’m not sure it’s the best place for you to be.”

“Miss Meredith, you see them dahlias? Fragile, aren’t they? But they sit out here in the sun, in the rain. It don’t do them no harm.”

“That’s true. Flowers are meant to be outside.”

“Honey, I been outside most my life and it hadn’t done me any harm neither.”

“You’ll need a place to stay at night.”

“See that house up there?” Thelma pointed to a cottage painted in peeling pink, just beyond the borders of devastation. “Lizzie has a room fixed up for me.”

“Okay.” Meredith nodded. “I’m sorry about your dahlias. I’ll get someone to clean up these broken pots.”

“I’ll get ‘em. They make a good walkway. Turn ‘em over, press the points into the mud real good.” She demonstrated, sinking the shard she held into the soft black earth. Thelma glanced at the muddy boot prints leading up to the front porch. “Keeps the mud out the house.”

Meredith made a mental note to pick up a few pavers to help finish out the walkway. Thelma brushed the dirt off her hands and surveyed the work to be done.

“Can I get you some new flowers?”

Thelma grinned, wrinkling up wisdom around her quiet eyes.

“Don’t need much, Miss Meredith. Don’t need much at all.”

“These were special, I know. Couldn’t really replace what they mean to you, but…”

“They got lemonade inside?”

“Just coffee right now, but around lunchtime there will be.”

“All right. You bring me some lemonade with those flowers, and we’ll plant ‘em.”

“Yes, Miss Thelma. We’ll do that.”

Hitch-hiking to Prison

Stories

I think sometimes Courage answers to the name “Crazy.”

Meet Gordon Hirabayashi.

Hold These Truths at Barrington Stage Company

“Thirty days for count one and thirty days for count two.” The judge eyed Gordon. “Does the defendant have anything to say?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Could I have a longer sentence?”

“You want a longer  sentence?”

“If you give me a ninety-day sentence I can serve this thing outdoors.”

“All right. I can give you ninety days. Any further objections?”

Gordon left the court room prepared to appeal the case to the Supreme Court, if necessary, and to serve his sentence in a prison without walls.

Then came a standstill.

A few months later, in an office…

“Gordon, we have a problem. The road camp here in Washington is off limits to you, and the next closest road camp is in Tucson, Arizona. We don’t have the funds to send you there.”

“What if I pay my own way?”

“You’re going to pay your own way to prison?”

“I really want to be outdoors.”

“Hmm. If you pay your own way, then I think we can make this work.”

“Really?”

“That’s a long way, though. How do you plan on getting there?”

“Greyhound bus.”

“Okay, I’ll write you an authorization letter.”

As soon as Gordon left the office, he realized he’d made a mistake.

Paying his way, he was violating his principles. He was innocent, had been deprived of a fair trial, and was fighting to uphold the 5th Amendment.

And now paying his way to prison? What did that say?

So he decided to hitch-hike.

They didn’t specify how he had to get to Tucson.

Gordon spent the next two weeks heading south—enjoying mountain scenery, visiting his girlfriend along the way, and even stopping in Las Vegas to play some slots.

When he arrived at the road camp, the man in charge first asked him if he was a Hopi.

“No, sir.”

Then, “What did you say your last name was?”

“Hirabayashi.”

“Hmm.”

After Gordon explained, the man in charge looked at him like he’d just said he was Queen Elizabeth I.

“You paid your own way?”

“Hitch-hiked.”

“And you came by yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gordon could hear the desert sun frying the air outside.

“Well, Mr. Hirabayashi, I don’t have anything on file for you. Why don’t you go into town and watch a movie then come back at 7pm.”

Now it was Gordon’s turn to stare.

“There’s air conditioning in the movie theatre.”

That was all Gordon needed to hear. “I’ll be back at seven.”

And he was.

(The above conversations are paraphrased from Hold These Truths. After I wrote this, I found a clip of the first two vignettes.)

Ready for more crazy-looking courage?

On his wedding day, Gordon had a warrant out for his arrest because he had written a very polite, insightful letter instead of simply checking boxes on a questionnaire. Apparently that made him “disloyal.” Also, a man of principle and an upholder of the Constitution.

His father always told him, “The nail that sticks out is the one that gets hit.” It’s an ancient Japanese proverb encouraging conformity.

Gordon held hands with Courage. Gordon wasn’t afraid to get hit. He knew the nail was bigger than the hammer.

And, in the end, that made his father proud.

For shepherds

Outdoors, Stories

Sunday after dinner, I’m standing at my kitchen sink watching a two-day old goat standing alone, unprotected in my neighbor’s field…

He’s tugging at my heart-strings as he stumbles over tufts of grass, bravely testing unsteady feet. I can’t tell if he’s limping or not, but the lurch of his gait is adorable.

Did I mention?–he’s brown with white spots and my heart is melting.

Mama goat is nowhere to be seen.

He’s over by the miniature horses now.

I won’t tell you what happened next, only it was bad, and I was angry, and I almost couldn’t watch, and I was standing there helpless and then running out the door even though I knew I couldn’t get there in time.

And I’m yelling, “Hey! Hey!”, trying to scare off the bigger animal. Now I see my neighbor in his field hurrying over. And I’m seeing it’s going to be okay…for now.

Still–where is Mama?

I want to pick him up and cradle him in my arms and hold him close and keep the danger away.

I watch the field for the next half-hour or so. Only once do I see him try to nurse. He has barely gotten the hang of it when a rooster came over and started pestering him. However inattentive she is, Mama’s body at least provides good cover. Baby ducks under and to the other side. The rooster leaves, but he doesn’t try nursing again.

It’s been a while since I’ve spent much time with goats, but I know what a good, experienced mama looks like. And I know what a bad mama looks like.

A first-time mama who doesn’t quite get it–she’ll catch on. It’s the older, indifferent mamas who make me mad.

They’re goats, I know. Maybe they can’t help it.

But when I see that baby standing there by himself and think about the sun going down, I get angry.

And I thank God for shepherds.

Our neighbor puts Baby and Mama in a separate enclosure, sheltered from the wind. I know it’s best if he’ll suckle from Mama, but I offer to bottle-feed him if it comes down to it. I doubt my neighbor will ask me to, but it makes me feel better anyway.

And then I think about shepherds and human mamas who bring baby goats in the house, cradled in loving arms. I think about a spunky old German woman and Gabriel Oak and the Good Shepherd.

I think about going out in the cold at 2am to bottle-feed a tiny spotted goat. And I hope I’d have it in me, if I needed to.

I think about all the babies in the world whose mamas can’t or won’t take care of them, and it tears me up inside. And I think about the people who do take care of the helpless ones, and my heart fills to the brim.

I think of grandmothers and foster children and brave, big-hearted people who show love whenever it’s needed. The kind of love that’s there for you even when it’s inconvenient. Especially then. When it’s needed most.

And then I think about joy. Tables where all are welcome and the hungry ones get to eat. Loving hands abound; there’s no stumbling along on your own.

My neighbor reports that Baby Goat is eating, nursing from Mama. And I think about hope.

Maybe she’ll be a good Mama after all.

And then I thank God once more for shepherds.