Come Ye Weary, Heavy Laden

A friend asked the other day how I was doing, and the only answer I could give was, "heavy-hearted." I have many reasons for that answer, but the most immediate is that a dear Friend in meeting died rather suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and we are all stunned. Her death came at a time when my service on nominating committee makes me acutely aware of how few people we can call on to do the work of the meeting. Our clerk spoke of the sting of losing a member, but it feels most like a bruise to me. I'm bruised by the loss of a Friend that I probably loved better than I liked at times: while I appreciated Carol's amazing and humble service to our meeting, I often had difficulties interacting with her. Despite that, I know that she loved me, and I hope that she knew that I loved her.
I was looking through my Cooper book in preparation for UC Berkeley Sacred Harp's first alternate book singing, and finally found the lyrics to a song I've been listening to on CD for a year, 416t My Native Land. I've been singing it all week:
Come ye weary, heavy laden,
Lost and ruined by the fall,
If you tarry till you're better
You will never come at all.
Not the righteous, not the righteous,
Sinners Jesus came to save.
It's one of those growly, eerie, slow minor tunes that makes my hair stand on end. It sort of captures musically that bruised feeling I've been experiencing. And while the music is raw, the words seem to me filled with compassion and redemption. Though I often marvel at how I can sing with conviction words that I would cringe to speak aloud, and the last two lines of this song are a prime example. Nothing like the idea of Jesus saving sinners to set my teeth on edge, because I hear in my head the voice of judgment rather than compassion. But when I sing these words, I hear no judgment in them, but rather comfort. All the ways in which I fail seem acknowledged, yet dismissed in light of more important things. I think what speaks to me most deeply is the idea that I can't wait till I'm good enough, but must go as I am.
Shapenote singing on Monday became for me a sort of pre-memorial memorial for Carol, even though none of the other singers ever met her. Still, several of the songs we sang became my prayers for her, and the food I made for our potluck supper made me think of her as well. Carol had a ministry of hospitality, and she always ensured that people were well-fed at meeting events. On a personal level, she very kindly agreed to help organize the food for my father's memorial a few years ago. It was this kindness, and the kindness of several other Friends at this time, that prompted me to finally ask for membership in meeting. So somehow, if you can follow my heart's twisted logic, making sure we singers were well fed seemed a quiet way to honor this Friend.