If it shakes you, let it shake you; let love’s heaviness o’ertake you
Let it bring you to your knees
Let the world outside look on; they will tell you to get on
But don’t let ‘em turn it cheap
You know how sometimes song lyrics say exactly what you need a friend to whisper to you? Last week, the morning my grandfather died, I listened to Catherine Prewitt’s EP Chanticleer, Certain Hope over and over while I drove August to and from school, while I made preparations to get our family packed for a 9-hour car ride, while I washed clothes and packed for a funeral. Mostly I listened to these words:
If it shakes you, let it shake you.
I’m so grateful she sang me to my knees. I’m grateful her words gave me permission to be broken. I’m grateful her music spoke truth that my sorrow didn’t need to be dependent on whether or not my grandfather had a long life. (He did.) Or whether or not he’d been sick a long time. (He had been.) I was allowed to feel the loss even in the grace of it. His long life was good. His being freed from his broken body was a gift. But even so, I was allowed to shake.
I love Catherine’s album. I love her words. I love her voice. I love how interesting her melodies are. I’ve said before that I’m not a music person. So I’m not going to sit here and wax poetic about her skill as a musician. All I know is that the first time I heard her voice I thought: I’ve never heard anyone with a voice like that. Her sound is unique. Her lyrics are stunning. And she takes me to Jesus every time.
Broken bird, you aren’t strong.
In the waiting He draws near; says, Beloved do not fear,
I will bear all that went wrong.
You are not made for love that breaks
So your heart can barely stand it when you think of your mistakes
Your spirits firmly spun, now somehow come undone
So of course in the unweaving there is pain.
Though your tears are still increasing, streams of mercy never ceasing will never let you drown…
Then close your eyes because her lyrics are going to enlarge your guts. I promise.