Pretend You're Happy When You're Blue

Today as I sat with a heart full of burdens, I was blessed by an unexpected visit from not one, but both of my parents. They were in town and stopped by hoping to catch an overdue visit with me, their "squeaky" little girl. As we talked about the happenings of the past week or two since we had last seen one another, my mother shared the details of my father's doctor's visit this afternoon. One point she had felt noteworthy enough to share with the doctor, and again with me, was that my father seems to be whistling and singing more these days than in recent months and years.

In one way it seems an odd thing to mention, but to those who know my father, his joyful jubilation through song and whistling was the essence of who he was. I say "was" because it hadn't even occurred to me that I hadn't heard either in a long, long time. Time and space and distance had separated the daily routine of our lives enough that I hadn't even missed it, much less questioned why it had ever stopped.

Growing up he always whistled while he worked. He would belt out songs of praise with great gusto as he split wood, hung drywall, made waffles on a Saturday morning, or prepared a sermon. Sometimes they were familiar hymns or Rick Fulton specials, but quite often they were songs that we had never even heard of, classics from his day, improvised with lyrics he made up for the ones he couldn't remember, or perhaps never even knew himself. For years I never knew that the second line to "Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head" wasn't "I can't seem to get myself in bed".

After they left today, I sat and cried, but just a a little bit. It made me sad that a once so familiar and fond aspect of my childhood had almost been forgotten, yet overjoyed that it had not been lost forever. He can still whistle, and apparently still does. I am exceedingly glad for the joy that is still in his heart.

In an age and culture where it is so popular to criticize and question all methods used to parent you, I am reminded of all that my parents did right in raising me. Neither they, nor I, am perfect - not then and certainly not now, but I love them and I know that they love me.

After my tears had dried, I googled "Pretend You're Happy When You're Blue" and found the rest of the lyrics that I never remember hearing. I only remembered the title stanza followed by "The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend" soulfully crooned with the smooth, steady vibrato of my father's voice. I had never even realized it was sung by Nat King Cole.

Singing and whistling alone don't make a father good, but they were, and still are, an expression of emotion, and ultimately of his heart, that I will make certain I never forget...

Pretend you're happy when you're blue
It isn't very hard to do
And you'll find happiness without an end
Whenever you pretend

Remember anyone can dream
And nothing's bad as it may seem
The little things you haven't got
Could be a lot if you pretend

You'll find a love you can share
One you can call all your own
Just close your eyes, she'll be there
You'll never be alone

And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?