One of the small groups in my church hosts Hymn Sing on Sunday nights, once a month throughout the year. Those who are able arrive early to hear the Hymn Sing Band, a gifted group of musicians. After the half hour of soul-stirring strains, the host for the evening offers greetings, asks us to stand and leads us in prayer.
"Please take your hymn book and turn to number . . ." After the rustle of pages, the band begins to play and we follow along. Sometimes we sing with gusto, sometimes not, but always with heart.
During the evening, I survey the audience. There are a large number of regulars from all over the county. There are folks from several of the churches I have attended in my youth, ones my parents knew years ago, even a lady who was my teacher at vacation Bible school at our tiny Westward Ho church. In each of those churches the leader would ask us to join in.
The legacy of the hymns isn't appreciated as much today. The majority of us gathered at Hymn Sing are the 50-plus crowd. What draws us together? I listen to the words; many of the lines are taken directly from Scripture. I can still hear my own grandparents singing those same words, grandpa's voice rumbling. Although grandma claimed she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it, she sang all the same, a quavering soprano. The truths in What a Friend We Have in Jesus and Amazing Grace, were some of her favourites.
I have a vague recollection of a Sunday night service in the tiny Pentecostal church in Sundre. My parents were part of a mixed quartet singing I Come to the Garden Alone.
Our own little church had closed and the one we usually attended didn't have evening services. If there was a service being held nearby we were likely there.
Sundre had inter-church revival services many times during my childhood years. We also had Youth for Christ meetings regularly, with a large crowd spanning all ages. There we learned the slightly more upbeat songs of the day with accompanying guitar, accordion and even trumpet on occasion. During special services we often had a choir; we assembled and trained together just for those meetings.
That was the era of the Billy Graham crusades televised across the globe. Initially we didn't have a television and were sometimes invited to the neighbours' house to participate. I recall sitting on the floor in Carlsons' log house, maybe leaning against the wooden frame of the davenport. Charlie, a very superior black and white feline might deign to allow us to rub his ears if we waited long enough.
Today I frequently watch The Gaither Gospel Hour on Friday nights. In the last number of years I watched with appreciation as the group presented a "Hymn Sing" with professional singers. I was blessed to have heard Cliff Barrows and George Beverly Shea again, longtime members of the Billy Graham team, music director and soloist. Both have gone home now, but their legacy lasts.
When I join in singing a familiar hymn, I'm not just following the words before me. I'm picking the words and the memories from the recesses of my mind. I'm participating with family and friends down the through the ages.
