Move Toward the Singing!

The sweet sound of children singing, that’s what I heard early on a Monday morning – the sweet sound of children singing. 

Head down, heading home from an errand on the west side of town, and “What’s that?”

“What?”

“That.” I’m actually talking to myself here.

“Sounds like children.”

“Definitely sounds like children.”

There is a door half-open, like a glass half-full, I think, so I head toward it.  The singing is coming from the other side of that half-open door.  I look in.  You just don’t walk through doors here – half-open or otherwise.  I can see steps leading up to a playground.  I can see the swings and slides.  I can see the heads of a couple of children.  And I can hear the singing.  God, it has been a long time since I’ve heard children singing these songs.

Finally, I just ease myself through the door and up the steps.  There they are, the children, the singing children.  They are absolutely beautiful, just absolutely beautiful.  I get a lump in my throat, I am so happy to see them, hear them.  A nun in a white habit -- I think they still call it a 'habit,' but I'm not sure -- a nun in white is dancing hand in hand with a small girl.  I am frozen in place.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, Jerusalem. Not heaven. Not even Iowa."  It's me again talking to me again.

The white nun sees me, drops the hands of the little girl, and heads my way.  She does not look happy.  An unhappy looking sister is a scary sight on a Monday morning.  She looks like God might look when God is about to kick somebody’s butt.  I smile.  She doesn’t.

She says something to me in French.  This is not good.  French nuns are tough, I think. 

"Right?"

"I'm pretty sure that's right."  It's just me.

I say that I only speak English and a little Arabic.

“What are you doing here?”  She asks in French-accented English.  It would sound quite lovely if it were not for the fact that she looked ready to slap me around a little.  In my day I’ve seen this look on the face of many an Iowa elementary teacher.  It brings back very bad memories.

“I was drawn to the children’s singing,” I say.

You know how sometimes you just say the right thing at the right time.  Bingo.  Right answer, right?  You know what I mean?  Well, bingo, right answer.  She smiles and she is truly a thing of beauty.  “Aren’t they wonderful?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, breathing again.  “Who are they, these children of yours?”

“Oh,” she says, “they’re not mine.  They’re God’s.”

“Yes,” I agree.  “But are they all Christian?  That was ‘This Little Light of Mine,' they were singing, right?”

She reached over to touch my arm, “You’re a Christian.”

“Yes.”

“They are mostly Muslim, but we are Christians and they are glad to have their children in our school, so we sing Christian songs.”

“And you dance too,” I tease.

“Yes,” she laughed.  “Some children need a little dancing to get them relaxed on a Monday morning.”  I'm pretty sure that's what I needed when I was a kid.  Didn't you?

The teachers and children are all looking our way now, clearly waiting for the boss.  “I have to go,” she says.

“Right, me too.  Thanks for not kicking me out.”

And I got this beatific smile.  I mean how else would you describe the smile of a 70+ year-old French mother-sister-nun in a white 'habit' bestowed on a lonely American on a Monday morning?  Just give me beatific, okay?  She gave me this beatific smile, and said:  “Always come to the sound of children singing -- always.”

“Yes,” I say.  “I’ll remember that.”

And I will.  Thank you Lord.