The Singer.

He was only nine months old. He could barely stand, and no way could he walk. He was cute, as all babies are when sleeping, or in a good mood. No one had noticed yet, although his mother had suspected- something was different about her boy. But, then again, don’t all mothers? When babies are born, aren’t hopes and dreams born with them? That somehow your child will be remarkable, and live a life you had hoped for yourself. She had those same hopes.

At nine months babies don’t usually talk, this one didn’t either. At nine months, babies make some “Ba” sounds and “Ma” sounds- if you are lucky, a “DaDa” sound may come out, as if on purpose. Until then, mostly cooing sounds come from the little tike. This one was no different. Except…

Except his sounds were sweet. Real sweet. They weren’t uttered, or spoken sounds. They were sung. Yes, sung. No one noticed at first- although often when he cooed, or said “ma” in rising and falling musical scales- people around him would smile. Absentmindedly.

You know, like the smile that comes to an older person when they find their glasses after a fruitless search- sitting quietly on the top of their head. Or the smile a child gets when it puts on a pair of shorts, and finds a washed and dried forgotten dollar bill, crinkled up in the pocket. Or the smile a young woman gets on her face, when she is reminded of her first kiss, from someone she loved- or at least thought she did. That absentminded smile, that flits across your face, and sits just on the edge of a full blown memory. That smile.

No one noticed that when he “Sang”. There could be no other description of his sounds. Nor did they notice that his little fingers were tapping out the time. The movements were so subtle and elegant, that not a single person, not even his mom, made the connection yet. Even when his foot would tap, they mistook it for the random fidgets of an infant becoming familiar with its body. No one noticed that when the radio was playing music, the baby was still. They were convinced the radio soothed him. No one knew he was listening.

It was when he started to talk, that people really noticed. If it was the first time you heard him sing: ” Hello”, or “Bye, bye,” for he never really spoke words, he sang them. Well, your head would snap back in delight, and like a baby, you would clap your hands together, and a grand: “Oh, My!” would float from your throat out into the air. “Bye Bye,” You would say back to him, with no intention of leaving. You just wanted to hear him sing it to you again. And he would.

He was only three years old, when he sang in front of people for the first time. The Church was crowded, it was Christmas , after all. Many folks were confused to see a little boy, maybe 3 years old, with a blue frock, loose curly hair, and somber quiet face, brought to the center of the Altar. His mother lowered the microphone, to no avail. He was so small he couldn’t reach it.

It didn’t matter to the little 3 year old. He pushed the Microphone away. He didn’t need it. He was going to sing. He loved to sing. He knew how to pitch his voice to the far corners of the church. He didn’t need electronic support then, nor did he need it in the future. Without lessons, without coaching, without teaching, or vocal lessons- he knew how to project his voice, like most of us know how to breathe. You just do.

Now some people in the Church were fidgeting:
“What’s that little boy doing up there? ”
“Some stage mother must have convinced the Pastor that their boy was special.”
“Is he going to speak? ”
Most of the church was busy murmuring, either disgust, curiosity, or gossip- it was Church after all. The murmurs didn’t stop, until the boy opened his mouth.

The words poured from the tiny boy. Fully shaped, and golden notes: spilled, soared, and swelled: filling the entire church, as they poured in a continuous flow of perfection. No one murmured now. No one even breathed. The music wouldn’t allow it. It wanted to be heard with out distraction.

The little boy went up an octave, and another, and yet another, and impossibly, yet another. Women had been crying for the last two octaves, dabbing constantly with light, dainty, white lace handkerchifes. Their emotions soaring along with his voice. In the upper registers, even the men, who up until that point, had only had shiny eyes focused on the source of the sound; well, they broke control, and water spilled down their faces too. It cascaded, unabated, unabashed, unnoticed, as it fell across the rough stubble of a few drinks to many on the Christmas Eve.

Then, his voice went up again. People fell to their knees, some called out, some raised their arms, families struggled to hold onto each other- and still the little boy sang. He sang of love, of joy, of hope, of the pure innocence of childhood. He sang of lost loves, and failed promises. He sang of unkind words, and sharp tongues. He sang of all that a human could be, would be, or should be. With inhuman skill, he wove the tapestry of all that is Human.

Words lost all meaning. It was the sound that connected. He became a conduit to everyone’s soul. Some souls surrendered early, and floated up the octaves with his voice. Some struggled, unable to free themselves from a forgotten guilt or shame. He sang until even those folks could release the pain. He sang of the bittersweet memories forced on widows, or widowers, or any one who lost a loved one. When he sang for those folks, peace descended on them- a peace that would last. A peace that would muffle grief, so that the pleasant memories could surface again, without the stabbing pain grief left in their hearts.

He sang of young love, first love, true love. Of earned love. Of given love. Of the newness of love. The sharp passionate love of a teenager, and the warm blanket of familiar love, snuggled up over time. He sang of the complicated forms of women loving. Loving their men, their children, their grandchildren. He sang of the more basic kinds of male love. A kind of love that wants to provide safety, security, protection. Male love need to be recognized, because unlike female love- it isn’t always there. He sang of that too. And he went up yet another octave.

Everyone broke now. Statues weeped. Angels peered down from heaven. God himself cocked his head to one side, closed his eyes, and smiled. Still he sang.

He sang of life, of living. Of animals, and birds, and things that swim. He sang of rainbows, and sunsets, and golden yellow streaks of light, passing by wine red clouds. He sang of snow so gentle it clung to your eyebrows, didn’t melt, and made you aware. He sang of hot chocolate being sipped while looking out at the cold. He sang of those moments where you sat alone, but not lonely, enjoying just being. Your mind empty of worry, or fear, or frustration. Those few rare moments, when you were fully ensconced in the present. He sang that with quiet elegance. Capturing in sound, the silent mind.

He sang of your journey in life, and for each person, that song sounded different. One would hear forgiveness, another the future, yet another would let an old grudge slide down into the sound- like a glacier calving. Thundering thru the soul, and leaving less anger behind. He sang of new hope, of new dreams, of making a difference.

Then, a strange thing happened. People started to sing back. At first shy little whispered words sung in the wrong pitch, in the wrong time, in some key known only to them. It didn’t matter to the boy, for he heard their songs. He wrapped his voice around their fledgling songs. He made a safe path through the progressions for the weaker voices to follow safely. To rise up without fear of criticism, or embarrassment, to just sing their song, their way, and join in. Along the way exposing hearts to honesty. For he sang the truth back at them, and found it within their songs.

Now everyone was singing. The sound became a wall of human emotions, and it danced to the music. Arms were flung wide, eyes leaked joy, feet kept a tempo and a down beat. Body, soul, and heart, joined with the mind, to melt into the boy’s voice. For still, even with humanity exposed in all its many guises, and with love flowing like soft ice cream on a hot summer’s day from the throats of throngs of people in that church- it was his voice bringing it all together.

Then he stopped. The silence tip toed in, as not to disturb the music as it settled into hearts, memories, and souls of young and old alike. People looked around, as if unfamiliar with their surroundings. It took some longer than others, for their souls had been exposed for the first time- and it is uncomfortable to find out about yourself. Others, were still lost in the song, and hanging out with a lost relative, or memory. Some, well, some were still savoring that first kiss, or the joy of holding a newborn, or of a goal worked for and reached.

The boy smiled. Looked for his mom, and left the altar. He liked singing. Yes, he did.