The Singer

Our children are truly gifts from the Lord, but with them comes an awesome responsibility. Like arrows shot from a bow we must be careful to direct them on the proper path. They can go farther than we ever could and accomplish things we can only dream of.

“Children born to a young man are like sharp arrows in a warrior’s hands. How happy is the man whose quiver is full of them! He will not be put to shame when he confronts his accusers at the city gates.” Psalm 127:4,5

The Singer

Far away and not so long ago there lived among the hills a people who called themselves the “Keepers of the Song.” For generations they guarded the song as their greatest treasure. And what a song it was, it embodied a hope that warmed the coldest night and lifted one’s spirit far above the stars. It was a wonderful song, passed by word of mouth from Father to son across the recesses of time and space. The song gave meaning and purpose to their lives. The song of the Hill people was known to bring light out of darkness and to even transverse the span of death.

From time to time some wonderer from down in the valley would find his way up among the hills and reach the village where the song was sung. The hill people would greet him gladly and patiently teach him the song. But once he learned the song, he usually would build a house there in the hills and never venture forth again. Few hill people were ever willing to brave the dark uncertainties of the valley to go forth and bring the song to those who lived without it.

Among the Hill people there lived a woman who loved the song, She learned it on her Mother’s knee and held it close to her heart. As a little girl she sang it as she played upon the rocky hilltops around her home. The song was her strength, and it shaped her life as the years progressed.

Sometimes as a young woman she would stand and look down into the valley and wonder what sort of people dwelt there. It seemed impossible that they could live and breathe without the song. There were times in the night when it seemed as if she could hear a cry coming from somewhere deep in the valley. It was a cry of loneliness and despair, such a cry as one might imagine would come from a people without a song.

She would often weep with longing to go down and sing it so that they all could hear. She could feel a strange pull upon her soul to reach the people in the valley. But invisible hands restrained her, nameless, impossible things that silence songs and darken dreams. Sometimes she would stand looking down into the valley and sing as loudly as she could hoping that somehow someone in the valley could hear. But she never knew if anybody did.

Her husband was a fine, decent, hard-working man, who also loved the song. He kept it wrapped in a little towel in his shirt pocket. Though it was always with him, he only took it out and sang it when he needed its strength. He felt that his wife sang the song enough for both of them.

As the years went by children came into their home, and they were the most precious things in the woman’s life besides the song. She sang to them through the long happy days of their childhood. Unfortunately, not all the Hill children learned the song. With this in mind she felt that no other task was so important as to make sure her own children learned the song.

She sang it to them even while they were still in her belly and then upon the breast. She sang it to them while she rocked their cradle and while they played on the floor around the fireplace. In the bright springtime while they played in the yard with their puppies, she entertained them with the song. Night and day, they heard the song. She even sang it to them while they slept. The song was life and she was determined that her children would learn it least she die.

Then wonder of wonders they sang it too, and the joy of hearing them sing that song filled her heart and spilled as happy teardrops on the rocky ground. They had received the treasure of the Hill people, the wonderful song.

Then one day a few years later her son came to her in the village. He had heard the cry, the low, hopeless cry coming from the valley. “Mother," he said, “I have to go down into the valley and teach them the song.”

For a moment her world spun around her as she grasped his arm. Many jumbled thoughts raced through her mind. The valley was a dark, unfriendly place and it’s people were not always kind. What would happen to him if he went down into the valley? To go herself was her dearest dream but to send her son was quite another matter. She would miss his company, she would miss his handsome face and the sound of his voice when he sang the song. She would miss his beautiful young wife and the joy of holding her grandchildren close.

But then she remembered the purpose of it all. She had taught him the song and in doing so she had given him the most precious treasure anyone could ever have and a treasure everyone has a right to own. One can only find freedom in the blessed bondage of the song,

She released him from her embrace and with a rush of joyous pain bade him fulfill the dream, The dream that rides on the wings of the morning and fills the whole earth. “Run”! she shouted, “Quickly run and spread the message, teach them the song.!” By Wanda Daugherty

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