Needle and Thread
by Shauna Niequist
When my son Henry was born, we brought music into the delivery room that we thought would be the right sounds for him and for me, to serve as the soundtrack for his birth. We played songs by Ben Folds and Snow Patrol and Johnny Cash and the Beatles.
Just after Henry was born, and I mean just after—when Linda, the nurse, was weighing and measuring him, and his thin little gasping first cries sounded like the most beautiful sounds we had ever heard—at that moment, the only other thing we could hear, in the middle of the night in a silent hospital, was a song called “Needle and Thread” by Sleeping at Last. It’s about God and angels and hospitals and love, and in that moment, it became ours—our song, Henry’s song.
A few months later, Aaron and I went to a Sleeping at Last show, and when they played that song, we held hands, and I cried some more, and thought about our boy, about the night he was born, and the ride home, and the thousand moments in between—of life with Henry, and the rich and miraculous thing that it is to be his mother.
I wanted to tell the songwriter about it, about how thankful we were for his song, about how deeply his song traveled through the tenderest parts of our life, about how those words and sounds had become part of the story of one of the most sacred events of our lives.
I didn’t tell him, but if I had, this is what I would have said: Thank you. Thank you, and keep going. Please keep writing songs. Please keep believing in music, because we do, and we need it, and specifically, we need yours. We’re desperate for great music, and there’s so much out there, but never, ever enough. We’re desperate for great storytellers, great painters, great dancers, great cooks, because art does something nothing else does.
My friend, Steve, leads a junior-high ministry, and it’s a fun, funny, creative group of kids and leaders who get together on Tuesday nights to talk about how to live great lives and make the world better in God’s name. He asked me to come one Tuesday night so that he could interview me and let some of the students ask questions. We talked about being a writer and what that’s like, and about Henry, and about bands that I like, and after it was over, one girl came up to talk to me. She looked nervous, and a little shy.
“I write, too.” She said it like it was a confession or a secret. She leaned toward me and opened a notebook and showed me page after page after page of precise cursive. “Do you have any advice for me?” she asked.
“Thank you, and keep going,” I said. “Thank you for writing, for taking the time and spirit and soul to write, because I love to read, and I’m so thankful to writers like you, for writing things for me to read. And keep going, even when -people make you feel like it’s not that important. It might be the most important thing you do. Keep going.”
So to all the secret writers, late-night painters, would-be singers, lapsed and scared artists of every stripe, dig out your paintbrush, or your flute, or your dancing shoes. Pull out your camera or your computer or your pottery wheel. Today, tonight, after the kids are in bed or when your homework is done, or instead of one more video game or magazine, create something, anything.
Pick up a needle and thread, and stitch together something particular and honest and beautiful, because we need it. I need it.
Thank you, and keep going.
[This post is adapted from an essay in Shauna Niequist's recently published book, Cold Tangerines. Shauna is a breakout speaker at Shift 2008]
When my son Henry was born, we brought music into the delivery room that we thought would be the right sounds for him and for me, to serve as the soundtrack for his birth. We played songs by Ben Folds and Snow Patrol and Johnny Cash and the Beatles.
Just after Henry was born, and I mean just after—when Linda, the nurse, was weighing and measuring him, and his thin little gasping first cries sounded like the most beautiful sounds we had ever heard—at that moment, the only other thing we could hear, in the middle of the night in a silent hospital, was a song called “Needle and Thread” by Sleeping at Last. It’s about God and angels and hospitals and love, and in that moment, it became ours—our song, Henry’s song.
A few months later, Aaron and I went to a Sleeping at Last show, and when they played that song, we held hands, and I cried some more, and thought about our boy, about the night he was born, and the ride home, and the thousand moments in between—of life with Henry, and the rich and miraculous thing that it is to be his mother.
I wanted to tell the songwriter about it, about how thankful we were for his song, about how deeply his song traveled through the tenderest parts of our life, about how those words and sounds had become part of the story of one of the most sacred events of our lives.
I didn’t tell him, but if I had, this is what I would have said: Thank you. Thank you, and keep going. Please keep writing songs. Please keep believing in music, because we do, and we need it, and specifically, we need yours. We’re desperate for great music, and there’s so much out there, but never, ever enough. We’re desperate for great storytellers, great painters, great dancers, great cooks, because art does something nothing else does.
My friend, Steve, leads a junior-high ministry, and it’s a fun, funny, creative group of kids and leaders who get together on Tuesday nights to talk about how to live great lives and make the world better in God’s name. He asked me to come one Tuesday night so that he could interview me and let some of the students ask questions. We talked about being a writer and what that’s like, and about Henry, and about bands that I like, and after it was over, one girl came up to talk to me. She looked nervous, and a little shy.
“I write, too.” She said it like it was a confession or a secret. She leaned toward me and opened a notebook and showed me page after page after page of precise cursive. “Do you have any advice for me?” she asked.
“Thank you, and keep going,” I said. “Thank you for writing, for taking the time and spirit and soul to write, because I love to read, and I’m so thankful to writers like you, for writing things for me to read. And keep going, even when -people make you feel like it’s not that important. It might be the most important thing you do. Keep going.”
So to all the secret writers, late-night painters, would-be singers, lapsed and scared artists of every stripe, dig out your paintbrush, or your flute, or your dancing shoes. Pull out your camera or your computer or your pottery wheel. Today, tonight, after the kids are in bed or when your homework is done, or instead of one more video game or magazine, create something, anything.
Pick up a needle and thread, and stitch together something particular and honest and beautiful, because we need it. I need it.
Thank you, and keep going.
[This post is adapted from an essay in Shauna Niequist's recently published book, Cold Tangerines. Shauna is a breakout speaker at Shift 2008]
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posted by Shauna Niequist at 9:30 PM
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