Free Stand Up Straight and Sing! by Jessye Norman Page A

subscribe to a particular belief system, the Judeo-Christian doctrine, and consider its tenets to be the foundation of my philosophy for living. Even though I was raised in the Baptist Church, as a child I enjoyed attending services in other churches with my friends, Catholic churches, synagogues, as well as what I found to be one of the most beautiful small churches in Augusta, St. Mary’s Episcopal Church.
    I am also deeply spiritual in the sense that I revel in those things that make for good—the things that we can do to shed a little light, to help place an oft-dissonant universe back in tune with itself and with ourselves. There is spirituality in saying good morning to a stranger. There is spirituality in sending a daughter off to school with the words: “You are just the best little girl. I am so glad you are mine and I am yours.” Spirituality can be as simple as saying hello to the person who is cleaning the floor when you walk by in an office building. Spirituality is everywhere I turn, and it manifests itself in all ways—in performance, in my studying, and in the work that it is my privilege to offer to charitable organizations. It is present in my love of family, friends, and community. I have faith in the universe and in its goodness and believe that goodwill moves through space and time and comes into my life when I least expect it, and certainly when I need it most.
    I have my parents to thank for introducing me to and guiding me to a place of faith and trust. So many things I remember about my childhood are rooted firmly in the foundation of their faith, gleaned from their parents and, surely, their parents’ parents, as well. My father was raised in the front pews of Twin Oaks Baptist Church, in Wilkes County, Georgia, a sanctuary founded by his grandparents that stands to this day. It is a perfectly beautiful church, the style of which can just as easily be found in any number of quaint New England towns. Today, there is a paved main road that fills in what was once a quiet country path, but it still looks exactly like the thing it should be: a white clapboard church with a little steeple. It is a wonderful sight and a joy for our family and the entire congregation that it serves. On the occasions when my family and I visit, I feel a beautiful surge of warmth as I enter the church, understanding the deep connection between my spirit and that of both my great-grandparents and my grandparents, whose images in the vestibule grace this proud, small, sacred space. The faith of my forefathers and foremothers sustains my own.
    I learned early in life that God is somewhere beyond the sun and the clouds and the moon and the stars, looking after us. But I also had other ideas about God that stretched far beyond what was being taught as I understood it in Sunday school, namely that God was all around us down here, too. And at about age five, I found Him often in the backyard of our home, in a lovely tree that stood sentry over the garden. I loved that tree because some of its limbs were low to the ground and swingy and you could climb onto them easily and jump on and dangle from them and, with a bit of kindergarten imagination, you could turn those huge branches into a majestic leaping horse, or a fancy car full of magical people, or a train as real as the ones that made their way through our town on a regular basis, sounding their lonesome horns as they moved along the tracks.
    One afternoon, while playing on this favorite tree as my father was busy taking care of something having to do with our house, I proclaimed, “When I come back to earth I would like to be a tree, because everyone has fun with trees. You can sit in trees, sometimes trees have fruits, and that would be a great thing to be.”
    I do believe that just for a moment, the birds stopped chirping, the bees stopped buzzing, the wind stopped blowing, and the earth stopped on its rotational axis. Or maybe it was just that my father, a devout