QUESTIONS, ANSWERS, LETTERS, AND LISTENING . . .

A REPORT FROM RAINY ANN ARBOR

The last (and only) other time I was in Ann Arbor, Michigan, it was 1992. I was a college senior and two of my roommates and three of our boyfriends drove up from Wheaton to hear Bruce Cockburn play. Sam Phillips opened for him. It was a magical night. One that I’ve thought of often and with great fondness over the nearly 15 years that have passed.

Today, Bruce Cockburn was my guest at the Ann Arbor Book Festival for an unconventional session at the otherwise bookish fair. We sat at a table in a stuffy lecture hall. A medium-sized crowd sat where the students usually do. I wore a lapel mic. Bruce talked into the old-fashioned kind on the table.

I asked questions. And Bruce answered. We listened.

We talked about God. About faith and religion and how his has changed over the years. We talked about what it means to be a Christian and what it doesn’t. We talked about knowing some things and not knowing others and the sanctity of uncertainty. And the beauty of spirit. His. Mine. Ours. Theirs.

About an hour ago, I got back from another dinner with Bruce. We had sushi. Last night it was Indian. We’ve talked about God and politics, the Vatican and Opus Dei, walking in the rain, the pros and cons of umbrellas, riding in buses, gun-toting liberals, cold-hearted conservatives, living in the city, living in the country, Nepal and New York, Jamaica and Jerusalem, missionaries and mysteries.

It’s been another couple of magical days in Ann Arbor. I’m sure I’ll remember them with great fondness for many years to come.

It’s whimsically wonderful how life comes full circle sometimes. How the Spirit turns us this way instead of that to lead us to the place we’re supposed to be at the moment we’re supposed to be there. If we listen for that voice. The still one. The small one.

If we listen.

Back here at what Bruce and I have dubbed “The Convent,” an old-timey “inn” on the campus of the University of Michigan that is long on history and short on charm (and TV channel options), I’m about to turn in for the night. I’ve got a two-hour drive west in the morning to visit Mars Hill in Grandville. I flipped through the channels (all seven of them — including the one dedicated to Falun Dafa programming) one last time before flicking off the tube for the night, and happened across a Sheryl Crow concert on Michigan Public Television. She was about to sing a song I’d not heard before. It’s from her album “Wildflower.” I don’t own it, but it’s downloading in my iTunes as I write this.

Sheryl calls the song “A Letter to God.”

“This is a song about God,” she told her audience before beginning to sing, “because I love Her.”

Listen:

I woke up late
Put my sweater on
And I walked down to the shop
I stood in line
‘Til the line was gone
And my turn to win was lost

What do you do
When you look to the left and to the right
And find no clue?

Well I’m sending a letter to God
How will it be when I’m gone?
And what if everyone is wrong?

I took you in
Made a bed for you
And in turn you gave me some
Words to go on
Told me I was saved
But you never said what from

What do you do
When you look to the left and to the right
And find no clues
To the questions you ask yourself at night?
Who will come through?

You’ll be sending a letter to God
How will it be when you’re gone?
And what if everyone is wrong?

A solid case
For the innocent
Could be made and laid to rest
They say, “it won’t do
If you aren’t like us
Then you’ve failed the final test”

What do you feel
When you look to the east and to the west
If this is real
Does it feel like some never ending test?
A finance deal
If this is my one last chance to invest
I’ve one request

I’ll be sending a letter to God
To know where will I go when I’m gone
And what if everyone is wrong?