I suppose, like most people born in my generation and beyond, I began to appreciate poetry through Dr. Seuss. There was something captivating about his singsong quality and how so much was said in so few words.
“And that is a story / that no one can beat. / And to think that I saw it / on Mulberry Street.”
That is sheer magic.
Inspired by that little phrase, and all the Seuss books that would follow, not to mention having strong writing genes, I began to write poetry. I was never particularly good at it and, to be honest, I have never really improved. But I am just fine with that; I find the excitement in the writing.
I can spend hours just staring into space, or sipping coffee, trying to find just the right word to complete a thought. Then, after the poem is completed, I transcribe it into a book and put it away. I rarely share the poems I write; that does not seem to be the point. The poems I wrote are simply that, poems I wrote, just to do it, just to say what my heart wanted to say.
To be honest, sometimes I think they are just words, good words, words well thought-out, but simply words. Re-reading them will help me to connect to the deeper emotions I felt while writing them, but, because they are rarely shared, I do not have many opportunities for another’s emotions to color them. A poem I write remains what it is.
That was until I met Todd Krier. I first met Todd when I was working at the Newman Center at South Dakota State University. This young man who walked into our lounge and into my life is a man of great talent. Not only was he a great football player (being named All-Conference when he played for the Emery-Ethan Seahawks), but he is also an outstanding musician.
One day he was telling me about the songs he would write, “The music is easy, but it takes me forever to come up with the lyrics.”
“Dude,” I said, because I spoke primarily the vernacular of college students, “I could write some lyrics for you.” It would be great to say that a powerful collaboration began that day, but it did not.
It was not until years later when I was moved to Sioux Falls and, through an interesting turn of events, Todd began to direct our 10 a.m. Liturgical Choir, that I thought about our intention to write a song together. One day as Todd walked by for choir practice, I told him I was going to write the lyrics of a song for Advent.
For the next few weeks I walked around with a little slip of paper in my pocket; every so often I would pull it out and work on the words scribbled on it. In the confessional when the line would run thin, in the morning after Mass, during lunch, sitting in the passenger’s seat driving to a priest support group gathering, at various times I would work and rework the few verses I was composing.
One day, satisfied with the results, or as satisfied as a writer can be, I handed a typewritten sheet to Todd and forgot about it. Several weeks later he told me the song was done and I asked to hear it. I was flat-out refused, the time was not right I was told.
Then, on the third Sunday of Advent, as I made my way to the front of the church to distribute Communion, I heard Todd’s guitar begin playing and then, through the sound system, I heard, “In a bleak midwinter…” the first of the words I had written months before.
As I stood listening to the song, while trying not to become too distracted, I began to think that the words were what they were and the music was what it was, but together, a song had been born. The merging of the two brought forth something entirely different and beautiful. It was not the words that did it, or the music, but the song touched me deeply.
It brought to mind the great scriptural injunction to “sing a new song unto the Lord.” I had always wondered about that, what it meant and how it could be done. This brief and fun collaboration gave me an idea.
Our lives can be beautiful and meaningful, but hidden. It is shared with a few, but rarely do we have the chance to know just how beautiful and meaningful it is. The routine of daily chores, the grind of pain and confusion, the doubts born of a thousand wounds can keep us from the truth of our lives.
Yet, there are times when the awesome wonder of God explodes upon us and we allow his presence to fill us and we are renewed and our vision is cleared. The more deeply we open our lives to this mysterious presence, the more our lives become something more than what we know.
We are the words; God is the music. Together, we are a new song.