I’ve been rediscovering some long-forgotten favorites in my music collection these last few weeks. Here’s how.
Nearly 20 years ago now, I took our CDs (that’s Compact Discs, y’all) and ripped them to a computer hard drive. This, I explained to Rebecca, would enable us to access, sort, and organize our music like never before. I saved our music on our boxy Dell computer and then downloaded it to a palm-sized MP3 player. After carrying heavy notebooks of CDs around in my car for years, the prospect of having 6,000 tunes in my pocket felt like science fiction. It was called a Jukebox. How clever.
All of this is ancient history, of course. The revolutionary moment I just described sounds quaint by today’s standards. Although our children think nothing of it, I stand amazed at my ability to summon any song in the universe simply by using voice commands in our kitchen while I whisk up a marinade for our chicken dinner.
But therein lies the problem. Seeing as you can listen to any song that you can think of, you can find yourself limited to that which you remember. It’s so overwhelming that we actually limit our exposure to music because it’s hard to get our head around a music library so vast. Listening to music through a streaming service can feel a bit like shopping for groceries at a market the size of Arkansas.
As a result, there’s still much of our favorite music that we rarely hear.
So, I’ve been listening to music I downloaded years ago and subsequently forgot. It has been a lovely reunion. I’m riding down the road, and a song from my youth fills my car, and I’m suddenly a teenager at A.C. Reynolds High School. The next song takes me to Arizona, where I lived as a bachelor after seminary. Then, there’s the song that used to settle Zeb down for a nap. A song that my sister played on repeat when she was home from college in the late 1980s comes next, and then I hear the familiar strains of a song I dedicated to a long-lost love when I was at NC State.
In rediscovering this music, I’ve reconnected with my past. Blessedly, it’s been a journey of joy rather than sorrow.
Music, as we well know, serves as a touchstone for recollection. Picture albums and scrapbooks accomplish a similar end. Scripture, too, helps to make meaning of life and lessons learned (and not learned). The memories I have of church life also find me grateful, if not a bit wistful.
Take a moment and recall the sometimes-forgotten moments we have of a life lived at church. What do you remember?
Felt-board Bible characters, perhaps?
Or maybe it’s the sweet volunteer who was able to get your toddler to sleep in the nursery on Sunday mornings.
Do you remember the extra practices you attended for the Easter cantata and the long chats you’d have in the parking lot with a friend after a church gathering?
I can still taste the home-made hotdog buns made by church volunteers for Wednesday Night dinners when I was a child, and I remember the softball game where we lost by a dozen runs in the second inning still had a great time.
Unlike the cherished music that we swoon to and for which we are nostalgic, we don’t have to settle for euphoria when it comes to our life at church. The sweet fellowship we’ve experienced in church doesn’t have to be relegated to the dustbins of our memories. The memories that we have of church life can be reminders of what we love about church and can serve as a siren call to beckon us back to one another.
Church life does not have to end. Being a part of a worshipping community that laughs together, learns together, and serves together does not have to suffer a premature death. Our life as a faith community can be our present and our future.
Push play. Listen to the memories just as we do our music. Then get up and dance. Return to a life that hasn’t ended yet.