Willie

She is a woman in my church, an elderly, slightly diminuitive lady with short gray hair, a sharply southern, throaty singing voice, and a love for hymns. She cannot be more than five feet tall, so this means that there is not much you can see of her when she stands behind the pulpit to lead the hymns and share one of her many cherished songs on Sunday mornings. There is just her metronomic hand keeping rhythm and her calmly pious face as she voices verse after verse, her expression seeming pleasantly lost somewhere between the past moment in time in which the hymn was written and the present reality of Sunday morning worship in which we all sit and sing along.
Willie is cherished by the congregation as much as she cherishes her hymns. Come Christmas, she is called on several times to sing "O Holy Night" in her haunting, southern style. The pitch of her voice would ne'er make a record producer's head turn, but it commands the attention of every person in our sanctuary, young and old. It is shrill, but a beautiful shrillness that summons to your mind a tapestry of southern heritage. I can picture Willie's mother or grandmother sitting with her at an old, upright piano, teaching her the hymns that were probably not that old back then. She doesn't correct her daughter's unique voice; she simply nods and sings along and tells Willie how gorgeous she has performed the verses.
Today, Willie sang two hymns at the funeral of one of the deacons of our church. It occured to me how long she must have known the man, who had been a member of the church for over forty years. I was struck with the poignancy of it all. How much emotion must have gone into the singing of those hymns. She had sung "Amazing Grace" and "The Old Rugged Cross" many times before, but today they were meant as a tribute. A tribute to a wonderful man and his great Savior.
There are hymns she does not know, some that I or our pastor occasionally pick for the service, that she will admit in front of the entire congregation that she is unsure how to sing. Sometimes she will call out one hymn and accidentally sing the words of the one adjacent to it in the hymnbook. This can go on for several verses, but she doesn't stop. Getting lost in the words is more important to her than listening for the right musical cues or watching the congregation to make sure we are keeping up. I believe she would confidently tell you this if she was not so humble. It is hardly a wonder the church loves her. It is certainly a wonder someone like her exists.

In many ways, this post is merely a sketch of a woman I realize deserves her own tribute. But I also imagine what it would be like in the church today if more of us sought to be like Willie. Few of us have a voice for music that can captivate a congregation, but I believe all of us have something to offer that can serve as a diamond amidst the rough of this sojourn we tarry through on earth. The key is finding out what that is, though I don't think we necessarily have to be as proactive as many motivational speakers and badly-written lifestyle books stress we must. I don't think Willie ever intentionally decided to be the person my church sees. I think she just does what comes natural, and has been living as such for many years. What comes natural to her is that hauntingly shrill voice of beauty, and the way those timeless words of hymnody roll from her tongue.
If we truly seek to do what is natural, I think God will handle the rest. Of such are the true people of God. Of such is the Church.

A Baptist chapel in Kennebunkport