The song of Mary Ellen

Guest blog by my husband, James, on our 45th anniversary.

I’ve known her for more than 56 years, but have been married to her for only 45. When I met her, she was 6 and I was 8. That first year, in the winter of 1955-56, we went bobsledding together, she sitting in front of me on a wooden sled crafted by my future brother-in-law, David, then a sophomore in high school. It was pulled by my future brother-in-law, Lorenzo, a senior.

We ice skated together on a vacant corner lot flooded for that purpose, but it wasn’t a date. In the center of the rink, in a warming house toasty from the fire of a wood-burning stove, Mary Ellen buckled on to the bottom of her rubber boots her little-girl, red-leather-strapped, double-runnered skates while I laced up my black and reddish-brown Size 4 hockey skates, a Christmas gift from my parents. I had helped pick them out and was pleased that the hard, rounded toes had been scuffed so little by the previous owner. Mary Ellen’s skates with their double blades, set about an inch apart, were brand new. Forty-nine years later, during the winter of 2004-05, our granddaughter Elsa would attend kindergarten in a schoolroom situated directly over what was once our skating rink.

We played house at Mary Ellen’s place, and we played marbles at mine, in a corner of the living room. On a hardwood floor, marbles tend to keep rolling. I don’t remember who won. It didn’t make much difference, because we didn’t play for keeps. All the marbles went back to the owner—me—when competition was over. We—I—didn’t believe in gambling.

I almost walked Mary Ellen home once. The ladies’ missionary meeting was at our house that month. Because her mother would be attending the meeting, Mary Ellen was supposed to walk home with me after school, but when she saw me surrounded by a bunch of girls, she turned, walked to her home, and her dad brought her to our house, instead. Mary Ellen must have been seeing things, because I don’t remember being surrounded by girls, on that day or any day. 

She turned me down for what should have been our first date. I was a senior that year and Mary Ellen, a sophomore, had transferred to my high school shortly after Christmas break. In May, I asked her to go to the CYF banquet with me. (CYF stood for Christian Youth Fellowship, a student-led group that met at the school for about one hour a week, after classes let out on Friday.) Not knowing if she was permitted to date, I gave her an easy out, “I don’t know if it’s OK with your parents or not, but I was wondering if you’d go to the banquet with me,” I ventured. Flustered, she blurted, “Sorry, no, I can’t.” It was the first time I had ever asked anyone for a date.

Had she accepted, it would not have been her first date. She had met a guy at Bible camp a year or two earlier, who asked her to go to the end-of-camp banquet with him. Later, they corresponded by mail, dated some—she’s always been a little vague on that—and now, even though he lived some 40 miles away, this out-of-town carpetbagger had invited her to go with him to our banquet, and she had accepted.

Before that evening came, Mary Ellen told me the whole truth, not just that she couldn’t go to the banquet with me—I had concluded that her parents didn’t permit her to date yet—but that she had another date for the banquet. Later, after we started dating, she told me, with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that she would have much preferred going with me. Considering the seating arrangement for that evening, that was probably true, as I sat across the table from the lovely couple. My first date would come nine months later, after I finally got my courage up to ask her out again. She says she gave me all kinds of hints during those intervening months. Could have fooled me!

Mary Ellen and I were married on December 30, 1967, and God has blessed us with wonderful sons and daughters-in-law—Kevin and Debbi, and Kyle and Min Li—and five beautiful grandchildren—Jacob, Sarah, Libby and Sami (Kevin and Debbi), and Elsa (Kyle and Min Li).

Some men say of their wives that “She’s a keeper!” as though the spouse he chose was a qualifying species of fish that met the minimum requirements established by the Department of Natural Resources.

Me? I married a woman, a singer. I love gospel music, and when I married Mary Ellen, I also got an unending playlist of gospel music. Well, it’s not exactly a playlist, because she picks the songs—a few words here, a hum there, sometimes a whole verse—but I enjoy all of it. And whatever song she picks at a particular moment, that’s the song I want to hear. After all, it’s the song of Mary Ellen, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Copyright © 2012

Singing I go

Last week, at a party, a friend and I discovered that we both go around humming or singing as we go through each day. We laughed as we noted that one word said by someone in conversation is all that is needed to trigger emergence of another song. Although I enjoy some secular music and most musical genre, gospel songs have been food for my soul from the time I was a young child. In addition to learning great theology, the words of the music and the emotions they evoke have helped me develop a relationship with God, led me into worship of Him and given me hope and strength in times of struggle. Often, songs help me recall life lessons I’ve learned along the way and encourage me to continue trusting God.

For example, the song “God Will Take Care of You” brings me back to when I was just 5 years old. My dad was out of work and although, as a young child, I was unaware of it, the family food supply was getting low. One day, we came home to find bags of groceries in our enclosed porch. Initially, we did not know where the provision had come from, other than from God in answer to my parents’ prayer. Later, we learned that members of the church where my future father-in-law served as pastor had donated the groceries. Other than their awareness of my father’s unemployment, they had no idea of our pressing need, but God did.

When I hear the song “Consider the Lilies,” I remember another incident from my childhood that took place a few years later. Once again, our family experienced financial difficulty when my father had to stop working, for health reasons, and food was needed for our next meal. I was riding in the car with my parents and, just as we crossed a little bridge, Dad pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car and took his fishing pole out of the trunk. As Mom prayed, Dad fished from shore. After only a few casts, a large fish struck the hook. It fought ferociously against the pull on the line, but Dad eventually landed the fish on shore. It thrashed back and forth trying to escape, but he jumped on top of it and was able to somehow get the fish into a pail. That night, we had a fish dinner, courtesy of God.

Then there is the song, “Higher Ground.” I vividly recall sitting on the floor at a women’s missionary council meeting I attended with my mother and listening as the ladies sang:

“I’m pressing on the upward way. New heights I’m gaining every day. Still praying as I onward bound, Lord, plant my feet on higher ground. Lord, lift me up and let me stand by faith on heaven’s tableland. A higher plane than I have found, Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

“My heart has no desire to stay where doubts arise and fears dismay. Tho’ some may dwell where these abound, my prayer, my aim, is higher ground. I want to live above the world, tho’ Satan’s darts at me are hurled. For faith has caught the joyful sound, the song of saints on higher ground.”

The words planted a desire in my little heart to know God better, which has remained.

From early childhood, songs have motivated me to keep the faith during times of lack, challenged me to pursue difficult tasks and make right choices, and inspired me to draw closer to God. Music is a powerful influence that can and should be used to teach children about God and bring them into personal relationship with Him. Children will never forget the lyrics, melodies and lessons they learn. It will help empower them to navigate life successfully.

Photo by Tom Curtis

Copyright © 2012