Song spent the first few days in the shelter to herself with her small children. She didn’t sing much anymore, except at night when she thought everyone was sleeping. She started singing about her pain, about her loss, about memories she hadn’t thought about in years, like Dealer. During those nights in the shelter she let go, opening up her heart to God. Something about being alone, being at the bottom, makes you free to confess that you’re hurting.
“Ooooooh weeeeee, child, you can sang!” a voice whispered in the darkness, causing Song to jump and look around to see where it was coming from.
Just then the voice let out a deep laugh, the kind that comes straight from the depths of your belly, and dances its way up out of your throat.
“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I felt that song in my soul. Whatchu call it?”
Song thought a while. “I don’t know. Don’t call it nothing, just singing I guess.”
Just then out of the shadows appeared a beautiful woman with golden brown dreadlocks tied up in a high bun. She looked to be in her early forties, but it was hard to tell in the dark, the moonlight being the only thing revealing her face.
“I’m Mama. I work intake and supervise nights here at the shelter. I always hear you singing at night, but I never wanted to disturb you. I could tell you had a lot you needed to get out. But tonight, I couldn’t hold back, honey!” Mama spoke with enthusiasm and wide eyes. She was so convincing, Song started believing in herself as well.
In the middle of her speaking, she stopped and stared at Song. “The favor of God is all on you. You’re His special Song Bird. You’re going to sing for Him and bring all of His lost children home one day.” She continued staring into her eyes, and then she smiled. “Come on, baby, you want some coffee? Everything is going to be all right. God heard your prayers.”
From that night forward, Mama and Song would pray and sing together every night at the shelter. Mama taught Song how to be strong. She showed her how to apply for housing, welfare, and food stamps. She encouraged Song to write music down and practice playing her guitar. Eventually Mama moved Song and her babies into her home. She had a beautiful home in Oakland’s Diamond district. She had a garden in the backyard, and a hammock. Mama would lie in the hammock as Song sang and the children ran free. So, this is what home feels like, Song thought to herself. Thank you, Jesus.
Song had been a sojourner for thirty-seven years, raised seven children, had been through two marriages, discovered her voice, and a purpose in singing. Some may be quick to judge her, but I love her for her story. I trust her wisdom because of her walk. She is my sister. So when she gazes out the window or becomes quiet when a certain song comes on, or a tear develops in her eye when she sees a young woman with her small children, I do not speak. That silence is sacred. It is a space and realm where only she and God reside. When she stares out of her five-bedroom, two-story home window, with garden and hammock, I watch silently. I understand that stare.