Janice Crow: – “Call Home Again”

Call Home Again

Flip, flip, flip, flip, flip……I never thought I’d miss that sound.  Does any kid ever put baseball cards in his bicycle spokes anymore?  For that matter, does any kid ever leave the video games long enough to even play outside?  It’s funny the sounds of the past that are carved permanently on my brain like the grooves in an old LP.  Once I start the trip down memory lane, it’s hard to stop.

Sounds are powerful in their ability to resurrect emotions and memories.  They can literally take you someplace you haven’t been in years…like the old city park.  I miss the “thwap” of the high-dive as someone braver than I would jump up and then plunge headlong into the deep end of the pool.  I miss the sound of a mighty splash and the happy squeals that followed.  I miss the  out of tune brass band that played under the pavilion and the sound of Elvis coming from the convertibles parked around Barney’s root beer stand across the street.

I still hear the sounds of home and I miss them terribly…like Mom rattling dishes while she hummed “Rock of Ages”, and the squawk of Dad’s old saxophone as he “practiced” (much to Mother’s chagrin).  I miss my brother Bill playing the waxed paper and comb or the whistling sound he could make blowing on a blade of grass between his thumbs.  I miss the big box fan in the back bedroom window and the helicopter sound my voice made when I sang into it.  I miss the sound wet sheets made as they flapped in the breeze on the clothes line.  I miss the whir of Dad’s push mower and the whoosh of his sickle in the tall grass.  I miss the clink of glass milk bottles left on our front steps and the  hiss of an icy cold RC when the cap was pried off.

I can still hear the whine of Mom’s Sunbeam mixer that I first learned to harmonize with.  I still hear it “change keys” as Mom turned the dial from “stir” to “whip” and the jig-jig-jiggling sound of her old pressure cooker. I hear the snap of our screen door and Mom saying, “Quit fannin’ the door. You’re lettin’ the flies in.”

I miss the bump and scratch of Dad’s old ’78’s on the Philco that played the Statesmen, the Blackwood Brothers, Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters.  I miss Saturday morning hoof beats,  “Hi-Ho Silver Away” and the whinny of horses.  I miss my sister Darlene playing “I’m Feeling Mighty Fine” or “Prayer is the Key to Heaven” on our old upright piano and my brother Don accompanying on trombone.  I miss my  sister, Sheryl, cajoling Dad into playing one more game of “Concentration” before he turned in for the night.

I miss the clang of the old fire engines and the ding of the ice cream truck.  I remember the sound Dad’s white wall tires made on the steep brick streets down by the river, the blaring horns of the harbor tugs, and the thump thump as we drove over the old street car tracks.

I miss the echo from hollering down Grandma’s well and hearing the old hound dog, Curly, howl when Grandpa finally coaxed him out from under the front porch.  I miss the deafening laughter of my aunts as they shuffled around the stove frying chicken at Grandma’s house for the family reunion.  I miss the creak-creak of a porch swing and the sound of a distant shot as my uncles hunted across the pond.

I miss the sound of preaching from an open-air tabernacle on the campground in Benton, IL and a mass choir singing “Heaven’s Jubilee”.  I can still hear them.”Oh, what singing.  Oh, what shouting.  On that happy morning when we all shall rise.  Oh what glory.  Hallelujah.  When we meet our blessed Savior in the skies.”  I miss the night sounds…the crickets, cicadas and bull frogs.  I even miss the sound of the freight train behind the camp, the bang and thud of coupling and uncoupling, the screech of the retarders on the rail and the eerie rev of the engines.

There is literally nowhere to end.  So many, many sounds from my past, and each one representing a precious, treasured memory.  I know I’m not alone.  I’m sure everyone reading this can recall sounds that are part of their story that they would love to hear again.

I wonder….what sounds would God love to hear again?  Does He miss the sound of a pump organ and a tent revival?  Does He miss the sound of an old-time testimony meeting where gray haired saints jumped to their feet to tell what the Lord had done for them?  Does He miss hearing “Amen” and “Hallelujah” or just a simple, “Thank you, Lord”?  Does He miss the sound of Biblical correctness, not political correctness in the pulpit? Does He miss the sound of a real preacher rightly dividing the Word of God and telling the uncompromised, unpopular and unvarnished truth?

Does He miss some of the same songs I miss, like “Living by Faith”, “Joy Unspeakable”,  “The Old Account Was Settled” or “Blessed Assurance”?  Does He miss the clink of coins in the Sunday morning “penny march” and the toddlers singing, “We Will Roll the Old Chariot Along”.  Does He miss the sound of children, period,  in the sanctuary instead of hustled off to the basement?

Does He miss hearing his children say, “I love you”, “I was wrong”, and “I’m sorry” to each other?  Does He miss hearing His children say, “Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth”?  Does He miss the sound of heels turning to walk away from gossip or a dirty joke?  Does He miss the sound of a television clicked off and replaced with the rustling of Bible pages?

This is just my opinion, but I think the sound God misses most of all is the voice of His children.  Think of it.  He created the waterfall that roars and crashes on the rocks below and the waves that rush onto the shore.  He gave each of the birds its own song and even the wind whistles through the trees a marvelous melody.  He could occupy Himself endlessly with these sounds. But I believe that our voices calling out  is the most precious thing to HIm.  He remembers fondly the moments we met with Him and just spent time with our Father, talking to Him about ….everything.  Telling Him we love Him.  Telling Him our problems and cares.  Asking for His direction for our lives because we truly care what He thinks.

He longs to hear from you again.

Call Home.

Janice