On Julie Andrews and Celine Dion
And losing something that won't ever return...or perhaps it may still...
Disclaimer: In the following paragraphs I present nothing but questions and suppositions. While I’m no seminarian, I think a few of you are. So please feel that you’ve got an open door to engage with these thoughts. Or tell me I’m wrong.
You may now proceed.
Recently, there came an announcement of a documentary on Prime about Celine Dion and her life since a diagnosis of Stiff Person Syndrome. Frankly, I’ve been avoiding learning more about the terrible thing that is stealing Celine’s voice. Say what you will about her, but it is undeniable that Celine’s is one of the most remarkable, powerful, and otherworldly voices we’ve had in this century of singers.
Except for that one time I sang “My Heart Will Go On” at my 8 year-old sleepover:
“I’m trying to reach the high pitch” a young Leslie says. Blessed youth.
I digress.
It’s my opinion that Celine’s vocal prowess is proven most especially in the behind-the-scenes footage of studio sessions. The trailer for the documentary begins with such a scene, with an unaltered, unfaltering…just a big ole, perfect skrelt (a trasncendent thing between a belt and a scream).
Celine Dion got to sing the way we other trained vocalists only dream of doing…she not only had her share of training, but opportunity to use the instrument in extraordinary ways.
Yes, I’ve avoided learning more about Celine’s loss…mostly for selfish reasons. Transparently, I fear that my own voice—a thing never used like hers but held equally close to my chest (literally and figuratively)—might suddenly be taken from my grubby clutches.
Julie Andrews’ vocal loss reminds me of this reality, too. Early interviews with her on the subject are heartbreaking. I remember a moment from a later conversation (perhaps the Diane Sawyer profile, though I cannot find the exact quote) in which Julie is asked what she would sing again if she could. As I recall, Julie thinks for a moment and chooses the moment at the very end of “Do Re Mi,” when she makes the octave leaps up to a final, soaring high C6.
As a closeted nerdy vocalist trained since childhood, I nod approvingly at her answer and understand her yearning for the feeling had in that moment. It is a glorious line to sing, with leaps up the registers whilst the orchestra is sawing away and an ensemble is building drama among the suspensions…waiting for the ultimate resolution. And on the word “do,” no less. A great vowel for a heavenward note. Nary another resplendent musical moment exists in all the entire musical theatre catalog (like the theologians, the MT enthusiasts among you are also welcome to speak into this but you are wrong. I’m sorry). It feels all things good, true, and beautiful. Bliss.
And for that ability to be lost—no matter the circumstance—is a tragedy. A high school friend and I once remarked, jokingly, that holes in conversation can always be filled with: “Isn’t it a shame what happened to Julie Andrews’ voice?” Comedy remains rooted in our tragic human condition.
All the metaphor I use above is may bring about visions of streets of gold. Of angel choirs and the entire globes-worth of people singing in an echo chamber as large as outer space. Infinite reverb. Singing plays a large role in the Heavenlies, according to the Bible and even in our cultural eschatology—when singers or musicians die, some will say they’re “singing with the angels now.”
We assume a lot about an afterlife, yet the theology of our bodies being resurrected and made new physically is taught in scripture. Jesus speaks of a new heaven and a new earth, and there’s supposition that eternity in heaven may look like life on earth now…just, perfected. Our bodies healed, the virus of evil washed away forever and with it, the symptoms it causes. Things like broken singing voices.
This makes me ask questions:
Will those who weren’t singers on Earth be given vocal abilities?
Will singers who have lost their ability regain it? And to what state, I wonder?
We spend our lives honing and perfecting an instrument, but at what point—what exact moment—is that at its “peak”?
And is that the moment we are restored to in a redeemed world?
Further, will singers of all types be given places and spaces to use their voices in all the best ways?
Admittedly, I hold onto hope for this to be made sight (as the old hymn says). The singing voice of mine is reserved these days for bedtime toddler rocking (and the occasional gig), in which I am sometimes told to stop (I’ve got critics, and the first of which are myself and my toddler daughter, in that order). I can’t know if one’s talents—artistic/musical or otherwise—are perfected and restored in an eternal new earth, or just the context around them.
There’s evidence that holiness can be seen and obtained in the struggle of life, in “working out”, or to configure one’s life with fear and trembling through the darkest valleys. And even in the creation narrative, Adam and Eve work. They’re given responsibility. It seems to me that wrestling with a creative pursuit isn’t a part of the broken human condition. Talk to anyone who does creative work of any ilk and you’ll learn that things are made better in the process of making and undoing and rebuilding and assessing and retooling…
Celine and Julie can make the beautiful noises they produce from their mouths through all of the above. And if they’re like me, they appreciate the end result all the more because of how hard they worked for it.
The subject makes me think about Tolkien’s short story Leaf by Niggle. Niggle (an unfortunate name, I know), spends his life working on a painting of a tree. Throughout that life, he’s interrupted by the needs of the people around him who didn’t understand his life’s work to complete this painting, and he never actually completes it before he dies. After death, he sees his painting as a real tree. Completed. Whole. Made real.
But most importantly, he sees the tree contextualized. In a place among other trees and mountains he had dreamed of when he was working on the painting. Then, he tends to the forested surroundings, making the work of his hands not only real, but completed and whole.
I find comfort in this. If I believe this sort of reality is possible, then my offerings in these years I’ve got in this life and failing body aren’t the end, nor are they the real thing. It’s something of a spiritual discipline: not just to accept mortality and a broken existence, but to know that restoration is ahead AND it includes the labor of my hands. Or vocal cords. Or feet. Or brain. Or whatever part of one’s body does beautiful work.
And hey, not just for me but for the likes of Celine and Julie. That voices will come back, perfected. Stronger. Whole. Real. But workable—tillable…to be better, even still.
God, let it be so.
And if it is, I’ll be in the front row for Julie’s reprise of Edelweiss, singing along with her:
Oh your words! I got super emotional over this entire thing. The honor you give these two legendary vocalists is due them, without a doubt. Losing their voices in this world is tragic. The way you ask the questions I’ve often wondered is very familiar (as someone whose fills my days with other people’s singing) because I don’t know how to live without music. However, I also long to have an iota of talent in this area so that I can sing aloud - without shame or fear of distracting others - able to follow along a line of melody for the joy of praising God. I have literally prayed that in heaven with a new and perfect body, that long-awaited ability to sing “Worthy, worthy” will be on pitch and incredibly flawless as I worship, hoping it to finally be without my normal cracks and lack of range; not for any personal notice or glory, but just to honor Him with something that is beautiful and given by Him. If He makes all things new, surely it’s not much to ask!
By the way, your “Edelweiss” is superb. One of those sweet white blooms will be part of a tattoo I’m planning. Thank you so much for a great beginning to Monday. ❤️