Spring’s arrived, despite below average temperatures.
This morning’s Boston Globe featured pictures with a piece on birds: Know Them By Their Song.
After reading, just before propping up my knee to ice and elevate for swelling, I put on a CD.
Needed something familiar so chose George Beverly Shea. After Mama died, I took the CD along with her Bible and tattered copy of Streams in the Desert. Treasures.
Before most folks knew him, Bev Shea was our neighbor. When I was about a year old, we moved from Chicago to Westmont, Illinois where Daddy pastored a small Baptist church. My folks loved to tell how I’d toddle over to Mr. Shea’s garden and squat down to feast on his tomatoes until I heard,”Janice Dawn, come home!”
Bev Shea and Mama had Canada in common. They must’ve talked about it but all my folks ever told me was how I unashamedly pilfered tomatoes from his garden.
I intend to apologize some day.
In the meantime, I took comfort today from his deep, warm voice singing familiar songs and hymns ranging from This Little Light of Mine to How Great Thou Art.
Good for more than birds to be known for their songs.
Bev Shea, God’s Songster, beckoned many of us garden squatters, rise up and head Home, telltale fruit juices dribbling off our chins.
Just as we were or are.
Jesus is calling.
Thanks, Mr. Shea, for singing, for planting tomatoes and teaching through a long, faithful life why you chose to sing for Jesus and let the rest of us listen in.
You didn’t sing it on this CD but I learned it from you.
I’d Rather have Jesus than anything this world affords today.
Maybe you and Mama are talking Canada, now that you’re neighbors again.
Hope she’s not reminding you about the tomato thief.
I’d rather be known for a song.
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