You've Got a Melody, Make Them Hear It
I heard this song from Charlie Worsham for the first time two years ago today.
It was long before this video came out, so I’d yet to see the stunning reflection of myself in the little girl at the beginning ... She takes my breath away.
The day I heard this song for the first time, it moved me so deeply that I listened to it on endless repeat for days and days.
Charlie occasionally graced our pews at church, so I sent the song to our music director along with a note about how much I loved it.
Two weeks later, I showed up at church and he was being very mysterious about whoever was coming to do the offertory.
You could have knocked me over with a feather when in walked Charlie!
“What are you singing?” I asked, certain that it was a coincidence and he was there to do something church-appropriate.
“I’m doing Cut Your Groove,” he answered.
Not quite sure how this wonder was unfolding but not passing up that kind of opportunity, I said “Would you like some harmony on that?!“
“I ain’t scared!” he said. “Come On!”
Our music director Chris walked in about that time, and gave me the most beautiful knowing smile. It took my breath away, because one of my deepest wounds is the understanding that anything that is a gift to me is a horrific and painful sacrifice for the person giving it.
I had long understood from the shattering examples of martyrdom, codependence, and depression I’d experienced, that creating joy for me was such a burden that my happiness hurt people.
I cannot say enough that that is what we teach people when we harp incessantly on the “selfless“ nature and painful “sacrifice” of love, and when we demand gratitude from our precious children as payment for what we give them.
Love is nothing more than giving the gift of ourselves, so if we are so “selfless,” - or when we show up when we’d rather be somewhere else - what kind of gift are we possibly giving?!
That entire paradigm needs to shift.
I have a friend who once continued to insist that love demands that we show up when we don’t want to.
To that I say, no.
If the joy of loving me doesn’t outweigh your not wanting to be there, I don’t want you there.
Your not wanting to be there renders you a hurtful and damaging presence.
Chris’ knowing smile that morning, when I could feel from across the room the heart-expanding joy it brought him to give me that gift, was life-altering.
I had understood for my entire life that loving me was a terrible burden.
Please, please sweet friends ... Understand that that’s what you teach people when you show up and don’t want to be there.
It was miraculous to consider that morning that loving me could be a joy.
“She’s the one who sent me your song,“ Chris told Charlie with a smile.
I got to add some beautiful harmony to his incredible song that day, and if the story stopped there, it would be infinitely more than enough of a deeply healing gift.
The next year, I went to see Charlie play a show.
To my complete shock and awe - bringing healing to my deep wound that says the people who matter are horrified to be associated with me - in the middle of the show, he introduced me by my full name I was stunned he even knew, and told the entire audience that we had sung Cut Your Groove together in church.
I could not fathom such a moment of being known, publicly acknowledged, and embraced by someone I so deeply respect and admire.
The people who mattered in my young life taught me that I would be worthless at best, and terrifying at worst, to anyone I longed to matter to.
That moment he no doubt didn’t give a single thought brought a depth of healing he could not possibly have known.
These miracles unfolded thanks to the kindness and generosity of both our music director and Charlie.
More than that, though, they unfolded because I knew what I wanted, and I asked for it.
Because first and foremost, I knew my melody and made them hear it.
My heart is unimaginably grateful for this song, and this man, and all the wonders that have unfolded in the space they create.
Charlie also happened to be at church the week my sweet dog Mimi died, and was stunningly present with me in my grief.
When I decided it was time for a new little heartbeat around the house last Christmas but not quite ready for a new doggie, I brought home an adorable parakeet.
Knowing that he had a melody and would absolutely be making me hear it, I named him Charlie, after this guy I’ve probably had all of five conversations with, but who feels every bit like my little brother.