A Joyful Noise

My mother could not sing, never hit one right note, never had any musical training whatsoever. But still, she sang with all of her heart and soul and with any improvised microphone laying around within reach. A spatula, a large spoon, a baton, a borrowed cane. It didn’t matter. She just needed a prop for her gig.

Don’t pity my mother for her lack of talent. She was in on the joke. She understood how bad her voice was. Her excuse was the Bible verse: Make a joyful noise unto the Lord (Psalm 100). And so, she did, literally. If only the talented were allowed to sing, the verse would have been written as such, she’d claimed. But noise gave her all the creative license she needed.

Her favorite, command performance came at Christmas time where her audience demanded to hear “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.” We had more chances of getting a white Christmas each year than of my mother hitting any note accurately in that song. But still, she sang.

I’m not certain how this tradition got started. I imagine someone, a someone who’d had too much eggnog one Christmas Eve, requested the song and she complied. It only takes one occurrence of anything to create a tradition in our family. And so, each year after, she sang.

Her lack of talent wasn’t reserved just for the holidays, however. Whenever we found ourselves in church, she’d belt out whatever hymn was on tap as if her song was the most precious offering she could give to the world. Somehow, she’d never offend those sitting around us but rather befriend them and encourage their own noisemaking. Whenever we were in the car, frantically trying to get somewhere on time, she’d belt out “Get me to the church on time.” And, of course, she would improvise by replacing church with school or game or movie, depending upon our intended destination. Whenever there was a dull moment at home, she’d crank the record player with “I Will Survive” or “We Are Family” or “Emotional Rescue” or whatever song filled the void of a house too quiet.

I realize now that her talent was not in the entertainment value of the moment (although, it was always pretty funny), but it was in her ability to prove that talent was less important in those moments. What mattered was raising our own joyful noise unto the world, finding the freedom to express ourselves, or letting go of the silly restrictions we place on each other and just sing.

And what is the one gift I long for at Christmas now? The sound of her voice.