Sunday, July 15, 2018


I just spent half of my drive home from church trying to whistle a hymn. Any hymn, really. Any song, come to that. And after several minutes of hot air mixed with some off-key notes, I had to laugh at myself. I laughed out loud, even. What a sight that would've been––an adult woman trying and failing miserably to whistle in her car.

Whistling has always been a puzzling activity to me. I remember hearing my dad whistle early on Saturday mornings when I was young. He could whistle anything, and the notes were loud and clear. I'd even say he whistles better than he sings! My mom, too, whistles with exquisite clarity. Even today, whenever I catch them whistling, I get so angry inside that I can't also whistle. If both my parents can whistle, shouldn't I be able to? There has to be some kind of gene responsible for whistling . . .

And yet here I am at 36, still trying to whistle. It's not that I can't make any sound at all; it's that I'm just an airy, one-note pony. I've practiced a good amount––maybe not a lot––but I still can't whistle a happy tune. Or whistle while I work. It's maddening.

So dear readers, if you have any tips for me, leave a comment.

Thing I'm thankful for: singing and music and all that goes with them