Heart Stories Part 2
August 12, 2025
Heart Stories Part 2
I arranged to attend a choir practice at the church of some of my African American friends. I was turning forty and for my birthday wanted to fulfill a long-held fantasy. I loved Gospel music, and to sing it with a Black choir would be heaven for me. My friends made it come true for my birthday.
The church was way out in the country. When I drove up for choir practice, no one was there, so I parked and waited for choir members to arrive. “Had I gotten the time wrong?” I asked myself. Then I decided to walk around the churchyard while waiting. The red brick church building had milky stained-glass windows and a tall steeple. No houses were close by.
The cemetery behind the church had many graves because the church had a long history. As I walked through the resting places, I read the handwritten names on the homemade concrete tombstones. Some of the graves date back to the late 1800s, only a few decades after the Emancipation Proclamation. I had never seen homemade grave markers of poured concrete with the names written on them while the concrete was still wet. Tombstones are expensive and an impossible luxury for many who lived in poverty, but the love for dear ones was just as great as those with means.
I stood there alone and pictured the many funerals conducted there and the grief those graves represented. I thought of the poverty and the suffering from the denial of human rights experienced by the people buried there and the entire African American culture. I looked at the new church building and its lovely windows and tall steeple. “They have fought many obstacles, including unspeakable prejudice, hatred, abuse, crimes against them, and enslavement. But look at this amazing church. What strength, what fortitude, what faith they had!” I thought to myself.
No one had arrived, and twilight was setting in. In the graveyard, I felt alone. “Maybe I got the wrong day,” I mused. Then, suddenly, several cars pulled up, and smiling people got out. They opened the wide church doors and invited me inside. I recall one of the choir members was with child, and many were teens. There was a feeling of new life, enthusiasm, excitement, and love.
Then the music began. I had requested to sing several African American gospel songs, and among them were my favorites, “This Little Light of Mine” and “His Eye is On the Sparrow.” I became one with the music and the voices of dear souls whose lights were shining, because they knew God’s eyes were on them. The wonderful music and the beautiful voices sang their endurance, healing, strength, faith, and hope. What a birthday gift!
Dear God,
I am so grateful for that afternoon because your eye was on me. Amen
