Yesterday afternoon, I went to Evensong at a local Episcopal church. A choir led the service, and it was reflective and beautiful. They began at the back of the sanctuary with an introit — Stephen Paulus’s Pilgrims’ Hymn.
More than 20 years ago, I sang that piece with my collegiate choir in Germany. I hadn’t heard it in years, but as soon as it began, I could anticipate every word and note. It lives in my body.
I remembered how connected we felt as a choir when we sang this piece in performance. Time seemed to slow down, and we found ways of inhabiting the words and making meaning of them. When I heard the choir in the back of the sanctuary and found myself remembering that music, those memories felt very present to me.
Music opens these kinds of memories to us. How many times have you struggled to remember a song on your own, but the second you hear it on a streaming service or the radio, you can suddenly sing every single word? We don’t always have full access in our recollection, but when the right note or phrase returns, something opens, and we remember. It lives in our body.
And I wonder if this is true of more than music — like the presence of people who have shaped us: those who have been in our lives for the long haul, those who have passed through our lives, and those who have died.
Perhaps we carry them with us, waiting for the right kind of initiating experience to make them feel present again.
Yesterday reminded me not to force those moments, but to stay open to them. I want to let them find me. And when they do, I want to recognize them for what they are, and to receive them with gratitude.
Here’s Pilgrims’ Hymn by Stephen Paulus:
Smuggling Grace 