The Miracle

(Reba’s Thoughts On Gaither’s Songwriting Intensive 2011)

They walked in big-eyed, excited, books clenched in tight arms; cautious and not a little bit scared.

Rejection is a cruel teacher and they all had felt the sting of the shunning. The sabotage begins early in life for the sensitive poet: the bewildered parent staring and wondering if this kid was switched at the hospital nursery, the cousin labeling them “weird,” the rigid left-brain teacher perceiving the unique gift as nothing more than chaotic rebellion.

Still, they were taking one more, last chance to put their hearts on the paper, their dreams in the melodies, and trust their precious ones to a team of musical and rhyming mentors.

The door opened and she floated in: golden hair halo, flowing white caftan, and completely disarming. It’s hard to resist a dimpled, winged angel with twinkling eyes… especially one named, “Gloria.”

I watched them as she spoke with her mothering, Indiana voice; soothing, cooing, assuring them this was in essence a sanctuary of learning, a temple of teaching, where corrections were lovingly whispered and never shouted or shamed. (At least that’s what her spirit sang.)

Their body language relaxed, arms opened, face muscles unclenched, and almost-smiles broke through.

I wanna be like her when I grow up.

Buddy, with his faithful, old guitar and crooked grin chiseled away more of the ice with his silly song about tree watching.  They knew him like you know your favorite, cozy robe… warm, soft, broken-in, and always comfortable. He was one of them; only he had been validated by those who had eyes to see and a platform to speak.

Andrew, new to most, with his blue-jean ways and boyish innocence charmed even the toughest soul while singing a ditty from every “begat” in Matthew 1. All the parents in the room wanted to adopt him while the young ones wished he could be their new best friend.

I speak Hillbilly. So, I served up my tastiest butter beans and cornbread stories including some crazy antics of Kentucky and life with my mom, Dottie Rambo.

Our daughter, Destiny, described her childhood, invisible friend, “Tree,” and sang them her sonnet tribute to imagination. I’m probably prejudiced, but she had them at “Hello.”

My husband, Dony, the weeper with the river-eyes, poured the oil and even the most broken among us felt it seep into the darkest secret chamber of pain. Maybe, he was there to help heal those wounded by ignorant and insensitive shepherds.

Jesus was so smart. He knew if it was twelve men, a few friends, or a hillside of thousands, something happens when we break bread together.  Obviously, Mr. Bill and Gloria learned from the best.

Thursday evening through Sunday afternoon, we all sat in the same room at mealtime, dippin’ our bread, sharing our stories, and laughing over scrumptious raspberry cake. We dropped crumbs on our shirts, passed around the coffee pot, and opened up like too-closed flowers who finally felt the stretching of the welcoming sun.

When the students sat in small groups and listened to caring teachers fill their creative toolboxes with the best and sharpest essentials… something wondrous happened. Hope sprang alive again. Newfound confidence exuded from their faces. Like newborn sparrows in a spring nest, their hungry mouths opened wide to receive each delicious morsel of wisdom. Their strength was restored. You would have to be blind as a bat to not see it.

When we gathered together to worship, there were voices ringing true like a chapel of clarion bells. No one sang to the floor… we sang to the sky.

Mr. Bill’s face was an ear to ear smile as tears flowed. This was good. This was right. And, a room full of musicians found their song, and the poets picked up their pens and began to write. They were no longer afraid.

I know a miracle when I see one.

Gaither.com has posted many photos from this spectacular weekend.  To view the photos, please click HERE.