Emotional Connection: The Power of Music in Grief

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always loved music. Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, there were no shortages of genres to choose from. I liked it all– Folk Rock, Jazz, Funk, Avant Garde, Hip Hop, Rhythm and Blues, Broadway, Swing, and Big Band favorites from my parents’ era. The sounds of Kool and The Gang, Earth Wind and Fire, The Beatles, Carole King and Carly Simon, Frank Sinatra, The Little River Band, George Gershwin, Journey, James Taylor, John Denver and Joan Jett made up the eclectic sounds that regularly reverberated from my room until the tiny needle on my record player broke, making it absolutely necessary to move into the world of portable cassette tapes and boomboxes.

But before the boombox era ever took over, my older brother, who had an extensive collection of LPs that filled two large dresser drawers, would occasionally give me a handful of albums he was no longer interested in, which I heartily accepted. It was one of the rare moments during the teenage years when he seemed to forget that I was his pesky little sister and invited me into his world. In fact, music served to bridge the four-year gap between us on several occasions when we were growing up. A complete techno-nerd, my brother was interested in producing the best light and sound shows, while I was accustomed to developing and performing song and dance routines, adorned in sparkly glitter costumes, of course.

During the cold winter months, when the two of us had an extreme case of cabin fever, we took our common love for music and collaborated to put on “shows” for my parents in the living room, while they enjoyed popcorn and soda. Michael Jackson and Paula Abdul would have been impressed.

Ok, maybe not.

When I got older and went off to college, whenever familiar songs from my youth came on the radio, I was transported back to the specific time, people, places and experience where I first heard the melody and, of course, all the emotions that went along with it. I was reminded of first crushes, first dances, first heartbreaks and everything else in between. But, one night, while I was at a fraternity party with my roommate from Chicago, I was introduced to a new song I had never heard before and one that would pull me from a deep well of sorrow and sadness several years later.

At the time, my roommate, being the good friend that she was, tried playing matchmaker by setting me up with a nice Jewish boy from her hometown in Chicago.

When she introduced me to her friend, his eyes lit up when he heard my name. “Allison! That’s a great name!”

It was a pleasant, unexpected reaction I wasn’t exactly prepared for. Not that I had any bad experiences with my English or Hebrew name (Avigayil), (both of which were chosen by my parents in keeping with the Jewish tradition to honor a loved one who passed by choosing the same first letter …in this case, my Great-grandfather, Abraham), but my roommates’ friend seemed just a little too pleased.

We continued getting to know each other and chatting…about Chicago, Kansas City, and eventually music. Craig was a guitar player and one of his favorite musicians was Elvis Costello, who had written a song Craig referred to as, “one of the greatest love songs ever written.” The song was called…yep, you guessed it… Alison.

That explains the enthusiasm over my name, I thought.

In all my years of music exposure to a variety of genres and artists, why had I never heard of this song? I knew who Elvis Costello was, of course, mostly because of his Top 40’s hit, Everyday I write the Book, but never once had I heard the song, Alison.  Not on the radio. Not at a party or dance. As far as I was concerned, it never even existed before that night. But as soon as Craig discovered I wasn’t familiar with the song, he wasted no time asking me if he could play it for me.

“Sure,” I said. It’s not every day you discover a song with your name as the title.

So, we migrated to the loft where his musical equipment was, and soon he was crooning the words of this sentimental, haunting melody while I awkwardly marveled at the new revelation.

Up until that point, my moniker never seemed to reach the same social heights as say… Melissa or… Jennifer… or Kristina. Names that seemed to be reserved for the darlings of the female populace.

“Allison” just didn’t have the same ring to it.

Until now, apparently.

I suddenly saw my name in a new light, or I should say, heard it through a new voice. Because of Elvis Costello (unbeknownst to me until that night), my name had officially reached the ‘Song Name Hall of Fame’, at least according to Craig Shiffman. Woohoo!

Fifteen years went by, and I forgot about the experience and the song entirely. I’m sure it played on the radio sometime during those years of my young twenties and beyond, but I honestly don’t remember being aware of it at all. Maybe, because I had only ever heard the Craig Shiffman version, not the Elvis Costello recording.

Then, one sad and dark night, after I had cried so many tears I couldn’t see straight, the song resurfaced again, just when I needed it most.

I was five months pregnant with my youngest daughter and had been driving for over an hour, trying to run away from the pain of my worst nightmare- losing my father suddenly and unexpectantly. His death hit me like a Mack truck, leaving a wreckage of devastation, disillusionment and despair.

I had spent the past four years waiting, hoping and praying for my dad and I to see each other again. My dad had always been my best friend and biggest cheerleader all through the years. He was always there to encourage me and make me feel like I could do anything. Now, my parents had moved out of their newly built condo in the suburbs of Kansas City and relocated to Florida, partly in their own attempt to escape the pain of their worst nightmare: finding out their only daughter was a believer in Jesus!

At first, they didn’t overreact. My dad and I continued to go out for our weekly brunch dates, and we all went to dinner regularly. They continued to be loving grandparents to my oldest daughter, who was five at the time. They even came to my home for a Messianic Passover Seder while I was dating someone they happened to like. But later, when my parents realized my faith was very much my own, they became more and more distant. Going to our Conservative Rabbi for guidance didn’t help much either. The son of Holocaust survivors who saw believing in Jesus as the worst form of betrayal, his advice was, “If she doesn’t recant her beliefs, consider her dead.”  

Thankfully, my dad never did take that advice fully to heart, but the distance between us was undeniable. He still called to see how I was doing, but I could hear the pain in his voice. My mom took things particularly hard. Over time, I thought, she would eventually get over the initial shock and realize I was living a fully Jewish life and teaching my children their Jewish heritage, so much so that my Jewish identity was even more important to me now than it had been for years!

But, when my aunt called one afternoon while I was napping and gave my husband the news about my dad’s sudden passing, it was like a bad dream I couldn’t shake. Every day was difficult. Every hour, the pain of losing him pierced my heart and it took every bit of strength to hold back the tears that continuously welled up in my eyes. I had two small children and one on the way, which didn’t leave me much time or space to fully grieve.

One evening, a few months after my dad had passed, when my husband came home from work, I just needed to get out and be alone somewhere. I drove for a couple of hours, and the further I went, the more the tears came flooding in, making it increasingly difficult to drive.  I pulled over to a strip mall and parked the car and unleashed a tidal wave of emotion until I just couldn’t cry any more. Anger replaced the tears. Anger at God for allowing what looked like unanswered prayer. All I wanted to do in that moment was go as far from God as possible. Escape the reality that he existed in any way. To acknowledge him would mean I would have to acknowledge that he was all-wise and the giver and taker of all life. But how can a Good God who loves me allow this? A thick, dark cloud of doubts began to flood my mind.

I went into the department store to wash my face in the bathroom, hoping to somehow wash the pain away too.

More than anything, I wanted my dad’s big, strong arms to hug me and hold me tight the way he always did. I wanted to hear his voice tell me just one more time that he loved me.

I wandered through the empty aisles of the store, making my way back toward the front door, sure my broken heart was laid bare for all who might pass by to see. A saleswoman quietly reorganized the clothes on a rack nearby.

A series of clicking sounds came through the overhead speakers, breaking through the deafening silence in my head. Soft music began playing and then a melancholy, male voice started singing.

 Aaaalison… I know this world is killing you. Oh, Aaaalison…but my aim is true…     my aim is true…

I stopped in my tracks and looked around, half expecting the saleslady (who was the only other person in the store) to notice what was going on. But she was completely unaware of the epiphany I suddenly found myself experiencing.

It had been fifteen years since Craig Shiffman sang that song to me and now, it was the only sound in the deserted department store where I found myself, after driving in circles for hours, trying desperately to escape the all-consuming pain of my father’s death.

I think somebody better put out the big light, because I can’t stand to see you this way…Aaaalison… I know this world is killing you… Oh, Alison, my aim is true. My aim is true…    My aim is true…My aim is true.

The words invaded the dark cloud of grief hanging over me and the longing for my earthly father was suddenly eclipsed by the love of my heavenly father. Tears welled up in my eyes again… only this time, it was because the words of this long-forgotten song that were first sung by a fraternity boy 15 years earlier pierced through the darkness and reminded me that God’s all-encompassing love wouldn’t leave me alone in my sorrow. As the psalmist says,

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
    Where can I flee from your presence?
 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,
 even there your hand will guide me,
    your right hand will hold me fast.
 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
    and the light become night around me,”
 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
    the night will shine like the day,
    for darkness is as light to you.

My heavenly father was right there with me and his heart was breaking too.

When the song was over and I went back out to my car, I knew it would never be easy, but somehow, through the God’s strength, I could go on again and face life, day by day, moment by moment, even without my dad.

In 1977, I wasn’t a thought in Elvis Costello’s mind when he wrote “one of the most romantic songs ever written”, but the God of the universe chose for me to hear it just when I needed it most.

How about you? Has a song been speaking to you lately? Maybe it’s more than just a song…maybe it’s a kiss from your heavenly father!