—by Betty E. Landis

As we rounded the curve of the con­course, a child’s cries ricocheted off the tiled bathroom walls, into the carpeted gate area. It was ear­ly morning, and the howling was getting louder. Women and chil­dren spilled out of the bathroom with expressions of determination more pronounced than the typical I-must-get-to-my-gate look.

I told my husband: “I need to go in there and sing.”

He rolled his eyes and replied: “You shouldn’t interfere, honey.”

He couldn’t know that I was remembering an overwrought grandma at the county clerk’s office from a couple months ago. While her daughter waited in a long line, she sat behind me, holding her granddaughter on her lap as the child bawled loudly. So I turned and began singing the “ABCs.” The child’s cries turned to sobs and then to stares. Soon her big brother joined in singing. Once her mom had finished, the family went on its way, thanking the odd stranger who dared to sing in public.

That memory gave me courage as I entered the wom­en’s bathroom. The ear-shatter­ing shrieks bounced around so much I couldn’t tell where they originated. So I stood with my back to the entryway and began to sing. Almost immediately, the howls subsided. As people exited the stalls with thankful looks, it became clear that the child wasn’t in one of them. I slowly turned. There, with her nose firmly plant­ed in the corner, was a little per­son dressed as a Disney princess. As I continued to sing—moving from the “ABCs” to “Winnie the Pooh”—I noticed a sheepish, bone-tired young mom around the corner, just close enough to keep tabs on the girl. EventuallyI heard the story of how the tan­trum began: one simple, firm “no” after a week of “yes” at Disney and a full night of travel. Mom and Dad didn’t have anything left. They realized she needed to scream it out, and the bathroom seemed the most logical place.

After the girl realized it was OK to talk with this weird strang­er, we discussed the wonderful things she got at Disney—espe­cially her beautiful dress. We talk­ed about how Mommy and Daddy know what is best when they say “no.” We exchanged hugs. I told her mommy what a great mommy she was. My husband was relieved to see smiles from me and the other bathroom visitors. I got the unexpected gift of connecting with complete strangers through singing—singing I’d felt com­pelled to share.

Easter is the story of God’s prodigal love for us—a lavish, generous, undaunted love. Eas­ter’s story, like a song, breaks into our Good Friday traumas and Holy Saturday unknowns. It over­comes tantrums from unrealized expectations. It quells sobbing when we assume the worst at the empty tomb.

Found in the most unexpect­ed places, in the strangest circum­stances, with the most unlikely people, the simple song of God’s prodigal love overcomes seem­ingly impenetrable walls. Take it from Martin Luther, who wrote in his commentary on the song of the seraphs, the Sanctus in Isaiah 6: “As long as we live, there is never enough singing” (Luther’s Works, Concordia and Fortress Press, J. Pelikan, Ed., 1968, p. 79). Christ’s abundant, life-giving love is the song that compels us. And even simple, ordinary ABCs can allow us to proclaim, “Holy, holy, holy is God; the whole earth is full of God’s glory.”

There is never enough singing!

The Rev. Betty E. Landis has served as an ELCA pastor in the Metropolitan Chicago and Allegheny synods.

This article is from the May 2018 issue of Gather magazine. To read the full story or more like it, subscribe to Gather.