A few nights ago we were treated to a fabulous summer thunderstorm. The kind that sends the kids running into the bedroom, vaulting under the covers in one smooth motion, while I barely suppress the urge to wrap the curtain around myself and break into “When the dog bites, when the bee stings…”. This particular night we snuggled together, watching for the sheet lightening and then waited…waited… anticipating the huge CRACK! of thunder to inevitably follow. As the storm cell moved on and the thunder booms quieted, three-year old Aaron laid his body completely over mine and his breathing assumed a steady and contented rhythm. I flashed back to about the same age, falling asleep on my grandma’s chest in her rocking chair, the rhythm of the rocking in perfect counterpoint with her heartbeat. My grandma died when I was 13, and I don’t remember her voice, but I do remember her heartbeat against my cheek. My friend Roslyn posted on Facebook the other day that she couldn’t remember the sound of her dad’s voice and felt like she had forgotten him. Randy died almost 9 years ago. I can’t remember his voice but I remember his laugh. And I remember what his fingers looked like as he played the piano. He is to this day possibly the most significant influence in my church worship leading experience. He was the one who saw something in me and decided to invest his own time and knowledge to see where it would go. In June of 2000, a little over a year before he died, a few of us went to an arts conference in Chicago. In a little shop across the street from the Art Institute of Chicago Museum I found a coffee mug with a piano keyboard on it. Everytime I take it out of the cupboard it reminds me of him, and how my life is different because of him. Rocking chairs and coffee mugs. Not the sound of their voices, but something we can hold onto.