on pitch

The Gardener leaned over to me and whispered, "Do you realize we're among the younger in the audience?" I looked around me at the mostly white-haired, seasoned and well-dressed people. Many were in my parents' generation or close to it. We were at the funeral of the "America's beloved gospel singer," George Beverly Shea, a close family friend for all the years of my life. It seems as though my parents' generation, the Builder generation, is leaving this earth in droves, many even in these past months.

We made a day of it, driving "to the mountains," as they say in our city when we are headed to the beautiful mountain area of our state. I wanted to be there to honor the man who was such a close friend of my father's. and I am so glad we went. I will not forget the moment they brought in the casket, covered with white roses. His voice rang out clearly over the sound system singing an old song, "Safe in the Arms of Jesus." You could have heard a pin drop in that large auditorium. It was beauty and glory all mixed together. The honorary pall bearers included a red-uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police. For Mr. Shea was born in Canada and his country sent a delegate to honor him at his death.

There were very few young people there. Most of that age probably don't even know the name of this man who has won two grammies and sung live before more people than anyone else ever in history. With an 80 plus year singing career, his record probably won't be beat.

He had a great sense of humor. Someone said that several weeks ago he exclaimed to his wife, "Can you believe I'm 104? Are sure I'm really alive?" His son spoke of his father's favorite place on earth, a small humble pine cabin in the Canadian woods. No heat, and so simply built, it was never damaged by wind or water. How like his father. That's what I remember--his quiet humility and his gentle spirit.

What moved me the most were the recordings played of his voice singing familiar songs, as clearly as if he was there himself. I sat spellbound, every word sung by that familiar, incredible voice embedded in my heart since I was a little child. There weren't many dry eyes when his casket was taken out as his recorded voice sang, "The Holy City."

Someone said that when asked what he wanted to be remembered for, he quipped, "Always being on pitch." And indeed, he always was.