At this moment the tiny child of a dear friend is having brain surgery. And down in California the child of another is trying to figure out why her hair has fallen out and what “chemotherapy” means. All this, while we await the birth of a new grandchild, and blow kisses to Meg whose baby will come to a momma without a momma. Blowing Kisses, the song, was written for Cindy, Meg’s mom. I’ll write sometime about the creation of that song. But for now I am thinking about what my grand-niece Quincey said a couple months ago.
Katie, Quincey’s momma, had tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and turned on the CD player. On the CD was a rough version of my new album, Blowing Kisses. Because she lives one house away, Quincey sort of watched these recordings be born. She has multiple versions of them, and they have put her to sleep for a goodly portion of her small chunk of life. She laid there in the dark while her momma sat beside her until she drifted off. In the quiet of the night, against the whispering strings of Aaron Ashton and the whistle of Daron Bradford, Quincey rolled over and said to her Mom, “Gummy called me her Little Lamb.” (My grandkids, and pseudo-grandkids, call me Gummy.)
Truth is, Quincey, we are all little lambs. And we are watched over, whether we know it or not. which is a good thing because this old world is sometimes so outrageously confusing I’m glad Someone knows what’s going on. In the meantime, thank goodness, we occasionally get to let go of even trying to figure life out. That time is called sleep.
Sleep, Little Lamb, here in my arms
Sleep while these hands can keep you from harm
Then when you awake you can run in the field
And all that will hold you is love
Your shelter will come from above
So sleep, sleep while the evening is kind
Peace to your body, and peace to your mind
For up in the heavens, where you used to be
Good Shepherd is counting His sheep
And you are his lamb
So sleep, baby, sleep.
