I love the African American spiritual Kumbaya. I love its repetitive nature; I love the melody; I love the feeling it invokes in me, that of holding hands and coming together to sing in gratitude and in praise of the Lord. All of the refrains speak to my heart, but some resonate in my soul:
Hear me crying, my Lord, kuymbaya.
Hear me praying, Lord, kumbayba.
Oh, I need you, my Lord, kumbaya.
When the folk music trend became popular in the 1960s, this song had a resurgence and became an anthem of sorts, praising the concept of camaraderie, of coming together. As a child of the 60s, I’ve embraced the belief that meeting people half-way is a more productive problem-solving solution than being an autocrat. This was my parenting model, too.
Mothering is a powerful force. There was a time, when my children were young, that I could solve their problems and alleviate their worries with a steady hand, and my parenting bag-of-tricks of hugs, kisses, and cuddles. They’re grown-ups now and the hugs, kisses, and cuddles come from them to me more often than not, nowadays.
My daughter knows instantly by the sound of my voice how my day's going and when she thinks it’s been rough, she will ask, "Mommy, do we need to hold hands and sing Kumbaya?" I love that about her. I love that her heart is so open; that she has empathy and sympathy and compassion in her soul.
As with many of us, though, she is struggling in this time of quarantine, struggling to find acceptance and gratitude and optimism and purpose at a time when life, as we had come to expect, came to a screeching standstill.
Expectations. A word heavy-laden with both hope and disappointment.
A recent conversation with her highlighted this disappointment; a cancelled trip home, postponed to some later unknown date. The sadness radiating between us was tangible, even though we were on opposite sides of the country.
This pandemic crisis has wreaked havoc with emotions and perspective. In the yardstick measurements of grief and loss caused by this virus, I am fortunate that I can measure my sadness in millimeters not yards. But life is not lived in the comparative; everyone’s pain is real and we were both grieving the loss of not seeing each other.
A day later another conversation, filled with hope. The emotional compromise she worked out for herself was that future milestones and moments in her life will just have to happen later than expected. What a salve that was to my bruised spirit.
Later than expected. Three simple words. A reminder that life will go on, that plans will unfold, that we will all, most certainly, be able to give real time hugs, kisses and cuddles again, that a steady hand in any time of crisis provides balance and comfort.
Hear me singing, my lord, in gratitude.