It's Nostalgia Night at our house. Ramona and I have been going through some old record albums. Yes, records. You may remember them. A curious form of transmitting sound waves, but nonetheless very popular back when the earth was cooling and we were attending high school. Although we've since opted for compact discs, I still can't bring myself to toss out these old albums. Recorded here is a part of my past. A part of the good old days. A part of me.
Like today's teen, we found music very important, ranking it slightly ahead of eating and some days even ahead of girls. Stephen Rendall and I would purchase the latest contemporary Christian albums, rush them home, tape them, then insert them in our car tape decks. How we prided ourselves on those tape decks. Who cared about the car? We would gladly trade in all six cylinders for 100-watt speakers. After all, no mere machinery could move you like music.
I remember the day Stephen pulled up in his 1970 Montego. “Climb in,” he said, a grin connecting his ears.
I climbed in. “Roll up your window.” I rolled it up. Then, as we pulled away, he calmly inserted a Larry Norman tape and set the volume on 10.
Moments later our ears were pasted to the headrests with, “I was lost and blind then a Friend of mine came and took me by the hand. And He led me to His kingdom that was in another land. Now my life has changed it's rearranged, when I think of my past I feel so strange. Wowie zowie well He saved my soul, He's the rock that doesn't roll.”
“STEVE,” I yelled.
“WHAT?”
“THAT'S GREAT! ABSOLUTELY GREAT!”
He turned the volume way down to five. “You're gonna be late for what?”
“No, I said that's GREAT. Turn the volume back up,” in defiance of the adults' belief I would lose my hearing.
It was during these interesting days that I began playing music to another friend. My mother. Yes, you read right. I would invite her into my room and attempt to cross her eyes with anything by Chuck Girard, Love Song, Phil Keaggy, The 2nd Chapter of Acts, even Petra. For some reason she always found time to pull up a chair and listen. I'm sure she didn't always enjoy my choices (just how much can a 55-year-old glean from “Lend an ear to a love song. Ooh ooh a love song. Let it take you, let it start”?), but she always cared enough to listen. And she encouraged me when she heard something praiseworthy.
Tonight, as I reminisce, I realize again how much greater is the influence of one who cares. One who takes time. For it is the truth: she who shrieks the loudest is not always heard the best. You see, while many of my friends heard only, “Turn it down, turn it off, or throw it out!” I was privileged to have a mother whose attitude was, “If he's going to listen, I'd like to know what he's listening to.”
Sometimes I miss those days. The way Mom and I talked after the music died down. I think Mom does, too, although she probably doesn't miss the music that much – at least not as much as I miss my hearing.
