Brief Homily: Amazing Grace

Since love prevails in heaven and earth

How can I keep from singing?

-From the early Quaker song, “My Life Flows on in Endless Song”

The woman was thin, and drawn.  She carried a large shoulder bag that seemed as large as her entire side, and it left her unbalanced as she stood there listening to me sing in the subway station.  The year was 1985.  She had a soft smile beneath her dark, close-cropped hair, and as she cocked her head while I was singing the spiritual “Amazing Grace,” I was very surprised when I looked her way again to see a pair of tears wandering down her cheek. 

            I was a young singer/songwriter in New York City, working to earn extra money in the subway and on the streets with my guitar, portable amplifier and microphone, and learning about my audience.  I was a professional musician at the same time, rounding out my income with odd jobs.  Sometimes my subway audience would stick around for an hour, even two –which always astounded me, especially since by that point I was definitely repeating songs.  I learned my physical and vocal limitations during those days.  The subway was safe.  If people didn’t like my music they would pass by, and in a few moments a new train-load of folks would arrive.  If people stayed to listen, I knew I was onto something.  This was paid performing with zero risk of failure.

            The woman stood in the station with me for a long time, appearing content and patient, as I moved into new songs.  Trains on the nearby track rolled in and out with their typical New York City screeches as passengers walked by steadily in every direction.  Several people stopped to listen to me on their way home from work or school.  Occasionally a group of girls would go by in uniform, podding like dolphins on their way home from school, imitate me, loudly, and giggle.  I did my best to be entertaining, grateful as coins and a few dollars were placed in the guitar case that I had laid open in front of me.  I was also grateful for those who stayed.  I hoped the songs would be engaging.

            Finally, after what seemed like a long while, the woman walked over to me, and with a deep smile that creased her young eyes she said, “I want to thank you...  I have cancer.  I am dying.  Listening to you has made me feel much better.  …You have made it easier.”  She placed her hand on my arm and held it for a moment, smiled as she looked deeply into my astonished gaze, put a dollar into my guitar case, turned and slowly walked off. 

            I don’t remember what I did next, as startled as I was, but I do recall reciting those words in my mind over and over and over again like a mantra.  “I am dying of cancer.  You have made me feel so much better.  Thank you.”  She could have given me a thousand dollars and it wouldn’t have been a better gift than her words.  At the same time, I grieved for her, while feeling amazed and inspired by her composure, her grace, and her courage.

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            The woman’s words and their simplicity have stayed with me to this day.  I often wonder how long she lived after we met in those brief moments, I hope and pray that her suffering was brief. I wonder if she could possibly know how profoundly she moved me, and I imagine she probably reached others too with her graciousness at the threshold of death.  Her kindness in sharing her appreciation of my singing was so genuine, and her acceptance of her coming death in that moment was beautiful.  Her unexpected few words transformed my self-awareness as a musician.   Meeting her reinforced my desire to touch people with music.  It gave me a new perspective from which to nurture and share love with strangers through the songs I sing.  This woman helped me to embark upon a musical journey that embraces compassion, and spirit, and an open heart.  I am forever grateful to her.