MONDAY THOUGHTS: ONE OF THESE MORNINGS: Remembering Walter Hawkins

I'd had such a wonderful time yesterday. 

Worshiping, and having dinner in Waldorf with my daughter, and friends from Germany, had been so lovely. 

When I got home I was a little tired, but in a good mood. 
Even the soda spill, someone had allowed to dry up on the stairs, didn't bother me. I went inside, grabbed the 409 and some paper towels, and went back to the stairwell to clean it up. 

Ringing in my ears were my Mom's words, "If you see something that needs to be done, do it". 

When I finished, I decided to just shower and turn in early--but not before I checked my e-mail. 

I'd left my computer logged on, and immediately saw the Facebook post requesting prayer for the Hawkins Family and Love Center Church. 

My heart sank. 

Death is no stranger; it's coming just as surely as we are breathing (unless Jesus comes back first), but sometimes, you really do hope that certain people will always be somewhere around. Even if you only see them on occasion, you just don't expect the world to be without them. 

I found my daughter, and I suppose the look on my face prompted her to ask, "What's wrong?". 

With emotion, usually reserved for a close family member, I shared, "Walter Hawkins died." 

I began to cry, and she hugged me. I'm glad I was with someone who understood what his life's work meant to me, and how much I adored it, and respected him.

My mind traveled back to an April evening. 

There were a few people seated in the darkened Kennedy Center Concert Hall, as we went on stage to rehearse. Nolan Williams had arranged a Hawkins medley for the Sacred Sounds Concert. 

I'd learned, a few days prior, that I would be singing some of my favorite songs. I couldn't believe my ears when I was told I would be accompanied by The National Symphony Orchestra. 

"Going Up Yonder" was among the songs. It was the first song I'd ever sung in public in my life. I was a terrified 15 year old, who had only joined the youth choir because my mother insisted I find something to do at church. I had no aspirations to sing alone nor professionally, but in my heart, I wanted so badly to sing like Tramaine--even if only in the shower. 

I had never heard a voice so lovely and powerful. 

That day back in 1975, I was going to get my chance to sing the words she sang, but I had to be pushed.
Since 1975, and thanks to Richard Smallwood, my chance to actually meet Tramaine, and sing with the Hawkins family was realized. Bishop Hawkins—all of them— were always gracious and kind.

Thirty-five years later, I found myself standing on stage with some of the finest soloists and musicians in the Washington metropolitan area. 

Someone decided that the music of Walter Hawkins deserved to be honored at one of the most prestigious musical venues in the world. 

Someone decided that his songbook was a vital part of the fabric of American music. 

Someone thought it should be showcased in a place where excellence is the standard, and mediocrity has no seat. 

Someone thought that the nation's symphony orchestra should master Hawkins music, too. 

In addition to other Hawkins-penned tunes, I was going to, once again, sing "Going Up Yonder".  Unlike the first time, I had a sober grasp of pain, heartache, grace, and the priceless basis of my faith. 

Dennis, Larry, Lecresia, Francese, Duawne, and I assembled ourselves, and were given hand held mikes. As we faced the nearly empty seats of the concert hall, a man wearing a gleaming white shirt, waved. I waved back, not knowing who he was. 

We rehearsed the medley a few times, and I was suddenly transported back to the choir stand of Bethlehem Baptist Church. 

After we were done, we went to greet the man who’d waved at us. It was Bishop Hawkins. He took both of my hands and smiled at me. As I hugged him, I realized how fragile he was. I didn't know that he had been ill. His eyes sparkled, and he smiled. I felt like a little kid. I was just so overwhelmed to see him, and blown away when he told me I had done well. Just the opportunity to speak with him and hear his words of affirmation, made me cry. 

When someone has made such a significant impact on your life, there's a part of you that longs to let them know. I'm glad I had the chance, as bungling and incoherent as it may have been. It's amazing how all of the words you thought you would say are suddenly reduced to a big bowl of tears, admiration and gratitude. 

At the performance, it was clear that cancer hadn't stolen his spectacular voice. His dignity and strength were positively breathtaking.

Last night I watched youtube videos of vintage Hawkins performances. 

I talked to friends who were feeling the loss, but celebrating the incredible gift to world music that is the Hawkins Family. 

I smiled, cried, shook my head, and heaved heavy sighs until I fell asleep. 

I talked to my big sister, who is probably the only person I know who loves the music more than I do. She wanted to make sure that what she heard wasn't some horrible hoax. (People do have a way of announcing funerals these days when there's no body to mourn.) I wish it had been a hoax. 

The sobering truth is that years ago, as we clapped, rocked, and hummed along, Bishop Hawkins sang fearlessly, and with authority, of a day in June 2010. He told us, "One of these mornings, it won't be very long, you're gonna look for me and I'll be gone...I'm going away...".

This morning, I put aside everything I was doing and listened to the continuous offering of Walter Hawkins' music that was wisely and fittingly provided by radio host, Gerard Bonner. 

"I'm Going Away" 

"Right On", 

"Marvelous", 

"I Won't be Satisfied", "Changed", 

“He's That Kind of Friend", "Wonderful", 

“Thank You"...

Each song brought back so many delightful memories. Each song testified of a confident soldier who didn't just sing songs, but sought to inspire others to believe.

 

The broadcast soundly arrested my morning. 
The earlier songs reminded me of the day my Dad came down to the basement to investigate what we were listening to. We couldn't listen to "that rock and roll" on Sundays. We must have had the volume up too loudly, and appeared to be having way too much fun to be listening to the mandated Mahalia Jackson or Sister Rosetta Tharpe albums that, for years, served as Sunday fare.

 

"Love Alive" brought new life to the turntable. "It's Jesus music, Daddy! See? Listen!" 

After the music passed his test, it was freed from its Sunday-only prison, and brought light to the rest of the week from then until this present day.

I listened to each track, keenly aware that I knew every lyric and ad lib. 

I don't remember enjoying listening to the radio so much in years. 

It's official. I adore good music. The genre doesn't matter, but when one tags the name of Jesus onto a thing, or declares that it's "gospel" it just ought to have the tell tale signs that there's a relationship with God at the foundation it all. There just ought to be some sign of God and his word that oozes from the lyrics and instrumentation. At a time when the preoccupation seems to be more with charts, numbers, fame, showmanship, fashion, and awards, than encouraging souls, it is more than a relief to be able to listen to music that, at its core, is the redemptive message of Jesus Christ. 

My thoughts, as I listened, only confirmed what I already knew. Walter Hawkins was one of the most articulate and compelling singers ever. His were crisp and convincing vocals, fortified by the Word of God. His are songs of incredible substance and power, replete with excellent musicianship, passion, brilliance, hope, joy and glorious harmonies. 

Good music never grows old. 

Some master the making of noise and trite lyrics that fall flat, and move a listener to do little more than yawn. Others inspire priceless memories, and stir the heart. 

I thought about Quincy Jones' tune, "What Good is A Song". 

Listening to the music of Walter Hawkins, so adequately answers the question, and in my opinion agrees: 

"If a song cannot take you higher, then it's not good enough to sing". 

Competence and excellence ought to be the standard. Sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ ought to be the motivation.

It's raining now. Thundering, too. 

I opened the window to smell the clean air. The sounds that nature makes are glorious. The sounds that we make, and attribute to our relationships with God should be no less. 

Thank you, Hawkins Family for sharing your talents with the world. I am so grateful to have been touched by the life and outstanding musical legacy of Bishop Walter L. Hawkins.