Many, many years ago, I was driving in my car with a friend, and for some reason related to whatever we were talking about, I opened my mouth and started singing. My friend was absolutely shocked.
Now it wasn't the quality of my singing that shocked her. (I can carry a tune; that's it.) What shocked her was that I would sing at all, with no embarrassment or self-consciousness whatsoever. She told me she could no more do that than she could run naked down the middle of a busy street.
Further discussion revealed that her family hadn't sung when she was young. She hadn't learned songs at home or in school or Sunday school or 4-H or Girl Scouts. She found singing a foreign and strange and scary thing.
I find it incredibly sad that anyone could be missing the joy that comes from singing. I'm so thankful my family sang. My dad would sing from an old commercial from his childhood, "Feed your chicks Purina..." or "Oh, Johnny, oh, Johnny, how you can love..." Mom would sit in our old rose-colored rocking chair and teach us what I still think of as the "Mom" songs: "The Little Skunk Song," "A Cannibal King with a Brass-Nosed Ring," "I Love MyPuppy, my Puppy Loves Me," "John Jacob Jinkleheimer Schmidt." Interestingly, my family did not even own a radio or a stereo for most of my growing up years.
In Bible school and Sunday school we learned every Christmas carol in the universe, and my brothers and sister and I would sing as we drove off to Grandma and Grandpa's house, or drove to town to look at the Christmas lights. Through 4-H and church youth group activities, we learned "They Built the Ship Titanic," "The Crocodile Song," and "My High Silk Hat." My sister and I would often sit outside on our swings on lazy summer days and try to harmonize or sing different parts. We still do it today when we get together, though, really, neither of us is a great singer.
After I learned to read music, I remember the joy of learning my very first song, simply by reading, and then teaching it to my sister. I can still sing it: "The Cat Came Back." My sister and I even invented a singing game for long car trips. The rules: Someone starts singing a song and must continue until the other person hears a word that is in a different song. Then she starts singing the new song. So I might sing, "Underneath the spreading chestnut tree. There I sat you on my knee. We were happy as can be, underneath the spreading chestnut tree...." She might interrupt with, "Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet ..." And then I'd interrupt with "Sweet Caroline...."
Years ago, a friend and I double-dated on a trip to Cheyenne Frontier Days. Much to the chagrin of our dates, we discovered on the way home that we knew all the same Bible school and Sunday school songs, despite growing up on opposite sides of the country. "The Lord built Noah and Ark-ie, Ark-ie, Ark-ie." "This Little Light of Mine." "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands." For the entire hour ride back, we sang these songs, delighting each time one of us remembered a song the other one knew. The guys were not pleased. (They are also not around any more, for either of us. Who wants a guy who can't appreciate great music?)
Just yesterday at work, I found myself walking across the office to get something from the printer and singing, "Oh, a capital ship on an ocean trip was a walloping window blind..." When I became aware of what I was singing, I tried to remember why I knew the song. I went to my co-workers and said, "Do you guys know this song? Or where it comes from?" To my surprise, I could sing all the words for the whole song. No one else knew it, and I'll be darned if I can think of why I know it. But I do. (I can't remember where I put an important file folder ten minutes after I've been using it, but I can remember all the words to an obscure song I learned God only knows when.)
As I write this, I surprise myself with how much I have to say, and how much more I could say. Songs are intertwined with joy and memories and fun and sharing and togetherness and words and language and.....you get the picture. I wish every child could experience life filled with singing.