When I was growing up, we didn’t have children’s church. All of the kids sat on wooden pews with their parents. Some had snacks. Some had coloring books. Some had little matchbox cars. I remember lying at my mother’s feet, enjoying the satisfying “pfff” sound her tan pantyhose made as I pulled the nylon fabric away from her legs and listened to it snap back in place. It was great entertainment for a preschooler.
As I got older, I had to sit beside her on the pew. I got pinched if I squirmed too much, tried to talk to my brothers, or turned around to wave at my cousins behind me during the sermon. Most of the preaching was above my head or too long for my short attention span, so I would often grab a hymnal and begin reading the stanzas of songs I knew and songs I didn’t. I was often surprised, and sometimes relieved, by the bold, black words. Imagine the burden lifted when I first read, “He sought me and bought me with His redeeming blood,” when I had been singing, “He socked me and bopped me with His redeeming blood,” for five years!
I read hymns we never sang in church and marveled at the beauty of the lyrics. I created melodies to go with them, since I couldn’t yet read music or make sense of the black circles, sticks, and marks that danced above the words. I asked my daddy, the music director at our church, why we never sang this one or that one–I liked what it had to say! Sometimes he would humor me and lead the congregation in a song they rarely sang, just to satisfy my curiosity. He was such a good daddy.
I memorized many of the words and listened to how they made rhythms and patterns and rhymes. And when the four parts came out during the choruses, I was just a little closer to heaven. I especially liked when the bass and alto lines were different from the ones the tenors and sopranos sang, making the song feel like a little game. You had to know exactly when to jump in. My Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Wanda led all the altos in the whole church–if either one was in attendance, you could keep the song going just fine. Oh, how I miss them. And how I miss that four-part harmony.
Daddy would often start a song with, “First, third, and fourth,” with hand signals to match. Those were the verses the congregation would sing together. But I knew the words to all of the verses. Because of the hymnal. As I grew older and hymn books remained in place on the backs of the pews or under chairs stretched out in a row, the words to those missing verses were still tucked away in my mind, memorized from childhood but sometimes revived by a quick glance at the hymnal.
Much of my theology was born from those books. I couldn’t understand exactly what the pastor was preaching about, but I understood, “Now let us have a little talk with Jesus/ Let us tell Him all about our struggles/ He will hear our faintest cry/ And He will answer by and by!” Of course, some of that theology had to be corrected with time. But not much of it. Most of it was pretty solid.
So Sunday, when my 6-yr-old was fidgety in church and wasn’t able to fully comprehend what the pastor was saying, I looked for the hymnal to hand him. I figured he could read it like I did as a child. But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t under the chair, lying next to the hardback Bible. There was no hymnal. And a little part of me felt like it was dying.
Look, there’s nothing wrong with the way we worship now. It’s not a sin to sing off screens. In fact, those screens help us keep our heads up, our voices projected out and up. We are still worshiping, and it is a beautiful thing. Technology has given us much to be thankful for. But just as I thank God for those screens, it is okay for me to miss the weight of that hymn book in my hands. It’s okay to miss the notes and key signatures that essentially taught me an introduction to music theory. It’s okay for me to miss the theological teachings of my childhood, the poetry I committed to memory at a tender age. The lessons were inked out for me to absorb as a child, a teen, a young mom, and now an aging one. And it’s okay for me to mourn the fact that while my children are blessed beyond measure, they are indeed growing up in a world without hymn books.
Next week, I’ll take my own to church. And when my little one’s mind begins to wonder and his hands search for something to keep him busy, I’ll be ready with a great tool. At least on one pew in one little church, there will be a hymnal. And I daresay I’ll feel better about the whole world because of it.
Carrying Anna, Carrying On 