Songbird

I don’t know why Christine McVie’s death last week hit me so hard. Obviously, I never met her, and I never had the chance to see her perform live with Fleetwood Mac. Given her age–she was 79 years old, a year older than my Mom was when we lost her–it was not shocking news, but sad and unexpected when I heard about it, standing with a group of other women of my generation.

So why did it feel personal? We’ve all experienced the phenomenon of shared grief after a tragic event in the news. This was the death of a famous musician, someone who had enjoyed a rich and long life of success and acclaim. Maybe I felt the sting because, although she was a stranger to me, her voice was one of a trusted friend. To me, McVie’s voice sounds like the roller rink in 6th grade, or riding with the windows down in summer. It sounds like packing up my room before my first year in college–all nerves and excitement and melancholy over leaving childhood in the rear view.

Sometimes, when I feel a wave of melancholy coming on, I sing to myself. And sometimes it’s Christine McVie’s voice in my head,

For you, there'll be no more crying. For you, the sun will be shining…

…And the songbirds are singing like they know the score

And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before.

That song and that voice are a gift to me. I hope you have one, too: a poem or a refrain to comfort you when the stress of the day or sadness is weighing on you, and to remind you that you are known and loved. You can even borrow mine:

And I wish you all the love in the world

But most of all, I wish it from myself.

Holy One, thank you for the many ways you remind us that all the love in the world is meant for each and every one of us. Amen

Eli is a song leader at Peace, where she happily shares many of the songs that are on heavy rotation in her mental playlist.