Phil Rice

HOW SWEET THE SOUND

Gospel songs and church hymns were always nearby in my childhood. I didn't actually get much exposure to such music in my home, but as a Southerner who grew up in what is both fondly and notoriously called "the Bible Belt," I am familiar with many a hymn-familiar, but not particularly intimate. The one exception is "Amazing Grace."

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

When I was in my early twenties, my father and I used to have great and wonderous discussions, usually drinking Heaven Hill Kentucky Bourbon (him) and whatever beer was in the fridge (me) while listening to stacks of records. Unlike myself, Dad wasn't particular about keeping his albums clean and scratch-free, and he would pile a half dozen albums on the turntable spindle at a time. After the last song of the last album finished playing, one of us would turn the whole stack over. Since these chats always took place at his house, the albums were always country, and frequently the stack was made up of nothing but Tom T. Hall records. The music mainly served as pleasant background noise, but occasionally Dad would indicate that all conversation needed to halt until the end of a particular song. Two songs were always guaranteed to inspire his hand of silence: Tom T.'s "Grandma Whistled" and Willie Nelson's rendition of "Amazing Grace." The former was a source of personal reflection for my dad, and when it played I would either respectfully listen or use the time to step in the kitchen for a refill. "Amazing Grace" was something else entirely.

T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.

When in the mood, Dad could spew great theological observations, and indeed he was held in high esteem by scholars and students of the subject. He didn't often use the prefix, but he was a "doctor" of theology, having graduate degrees from Emory and Drew universities, and had he lived into retirement he likely would have enjoyed an adjunct professorship at Sewanee or some other seminary. So, when he told me that "Amazing Grace" was the complete theological package, I paid attention. Attributed in the 1760s to John Newton, a slave ship captain turned evangelical abolitionist, the hymn is at once personal and universal, and, despite being penned by an Englishman, it has become firmly entrenched as an organic slice of Americana. Dad and I never discussed these aspects of the song, though. We mainly listened to Willie sing it, and sometimes we both sang along in our respective bass (him) and off-key monotone (me) warblings.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;

In the early 1980s Dad participated in the revision process for the hymnal to be used in the Episcopal Church. The only recollection I have of his involvement is his voting to include "Amazing Grace." As a parish priest he was a stickler that any songs used in an official service be from the official hymnal. When the revised hymnal was published in 1982, "Amazing Grace" was included, much to his gratification.

'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

In 1986 Dad learned that his liver, like a piece of untreated lumber left in a swamp, was rotted through and through. He died just a few weeks after the revelation. The official cause of death was attributed to cirrhosis, but the doctor could have stated "rot-gut whiskey" and no one would have argued the point. Among the hymns sung at his memorial service-thanks to its recent inclusion in the hymnal-was "Amazing Grace." Any tears still held in reserve flowed as the people lifted their voices, and unlike the other hymns offered that day, most of the folks could sing the words without looking at the book.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.

When my son Charles Leslie was born on August 1st, 1992, I wasn't singing "Amazing Grace," but I was feeling it. Having already experienced the unimaginable joy of the birth of my daughter Christi eight years earlier, I was aware of the intense love possible at such moments, but age and a little maturity had provided me with an acute awareness of a new element that had escaped me before-grace. With Charles, named after my father, I was conscious of the spiritual forces that transcend the physical union of conception, and no matter how in awe I was of the birth process itself, I kept an internal mantra of thanks going as Charles entered the physical world. I felt reconciled as a human being as if Charles was proof of a spiritual love we receive in spite of our inescapable humanness. Grace.

He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

That spirit has no beginning, no end, became immensely clear when Charles took a nap on December 23. Our home was festively decorated in anticipation of baby's first Christmas, but Charles left peacefully in his sleep that afternoon. We gathered the day after Christmas to hold each other in stunned silence. Will Campbell led the singing of "Jesus Loves Me" and other children's hymns, and then "Amazing Grace." I was standing next to my friend Tom Tyner, who only a couple of weeks earlier had stood beside me as godfather at my son's baptism. Tom closed his eyes as he sang the hymn. A masterful musician and singer, Tom could have carefully studied the song, making sure his vocal chords precisely hit the exact notes in perfect key, but these sounds were flowing from his soul. Never in my life could I have imagined such a vocal rendering. The sound was angelic, and I barely murmured the words myself as I looked up at the face of my friend, his tear-filled eyes closed tight. This was comfort at a moment when comfort was not possible. Grace.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

Recently I made daily visits to a nearby nursing home where my mother was receiving care. One Sunday a group of local church folks had a sing-a-long in the cafeteria. Most of the audience sat quietly and listened. Many couldn't hear the music, but they seemed to take comfort in the knowledge that they were in the presence of heartfelt gospel singing. The old time-worn hymnals that were passed around were useless for the majority of the residents at this place as most had left their reading abilities far behind, but once again "Amazing Grace" required no hymnal. Those who were following the presentation gleefully joined in, and for the last verse many swayed with upraised hands while chanting "Praise God" to the tune.

When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

I listened and watched, feeling both joy and sadness, and my mind stuck on one of the ladies who sat motionless in her wheelchair, staring intensely at the performers. I had seen her the day before, pushing herself down the hallway with her feet. Pointing to the ceiling with her left hand she cried out, over and over again, "Is there a Jesus who will help me?" The workers and other residents simply ignored her plea, and when she looked me in the eye and repeated her question, I could only smile helplessly. Now as she sat transfixed in silence as "Amazing Grace" filled the room, I wanted to believe that she was comforted by the hymn. Her cries of anguish were at least momentarily quieted. So it can be with grace-more subtle than a silent breeze. How sweet the sound.

Phil Rice, a native of Tennessee, currently writes and edits near Pittsburgh, PA where he lives with his son Paul and Miles the Cat.

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Phil Rice