Mindy Gledhill Music

Posts Tagged ‘friends

I just got home from singing at a funeral. Just walked through the door, just settled on the couch and set my keys beside me. Except, these really aren’t my keys. This morning I couldn’t find my car keys. As I slung my purse over my shoulder and reached for my keys on the hook by the back door, there was nothing there—a familiar scenario. I searched in all of the likely places: on my vanity, bedspread, kitchen table, counter tops, floor, and the boys’ rooms. Nothing. I prayed (as I often do when I lose something important), but the clock ticked on and I knew I had ten minutes to be in a place that was twenty minutes away. Frantic, I called my mother-in-law who lives across the street.
“Hi Leslie, it’s Mindy. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra car over there that I could borrow? I am late for a funeral that I have been asked to sing at.”
Leslie is always gracious to me. She looked around the house for the keys to their Jeep Wrangler, but soon discovered that it was out of gas. She obliged a busy son if he would let me take his Jetta, but he was of course going to need it. She would have even let me take her luxurious Sequoia but she had just loaded it with things and was on her way somewhere.
“All we have is the moving van….”
“I’ll take it!” I responded with only five minutes remaining.
I flew down the back stairs down to the carport and jumped in the driver’s seat of the big, white van only to realize that the windshield was encrusted with ice. Luckily, there was an ice scraper on the floor. I hopped out, scraped off the frost from the early-morning chill, climbed back inside and was on my way.
Putting the pedal to the metal, I ripped out of the driveway and made my way just south of town to Springville, UT. I squinted at my paper with a set of mapquested directions. Turn left on 400 South. I turned left. Turn right on S. Canyon Rd. I went all the way up 400 South, and could have sworn there was never an S. Canyon Rd. I retraced my path driving back down 400 South to where I first made the left-hand turn. No S. Canyon Rd. in sight. I prayed. I cried.
“Reva!” I cried out loud. “Where is your funeral?”
Reva Taylor emailed me on July 10th, almost three months ago. Her letter read:
Dear Mindy,
My name is Reva Taylor. I live in Springville, UT with my wonderful husband. I am a fifty-five year old mother of five children and grandmother of nine grandchildren. I love your music and listen to it all the time.
I am terminally ill as a result of ovarian cancer. I am trying to make some preparations for my own funeral. I would like my daughter to sing one of your songs at my funeral. The song is “Child of Light.”
Reva went on to say that she could not find the sheet music anywhere and wondered if I could help her get a hold of it “someway, somehow.” I told her that I would be happy to get help her out and that I was honored at such a request.
Three weeks later, Reva turned up at one of my concerts. She introduced herself and reminded me of her email. I reached for her and we embraced as we both wept. I was about to go on stage and Reva only had the strength to stay for a few songs.
In October, I received a new email from Reva (which she later confessed, took her over an hour to write). She had a new request. She had been listening to “The Sum of All Grace” from her bedside and was particularly drawn to track one, “I Will Rest in You.” She asked if I would sing it at her funeral as well as accompany her daughter, Tanya, on “Child of Light.” I don’t normally just sing for people I barely know. But this was a very different case indeed. I was honored by her request. Arrangements were made for a rehearsal. Reva was not in a state to leave her bed, but she did not want to miss the rehearsal knowing that she would not be there in person to hear the real performance. This was the last time I would see her. She was frail, and needed to be wrapped in blankets to keep warm. But her spirit burned brightly and she directed our rehearsal with the zeal of Gerald Ottley (of course, weeping intermittently). Never was there such an overwhelming feeling of peace and love in my living room.
Today, through tears, as I drove around Springville like a maniac in a moving van, I called out to Reva and asked her to guide me to the church where her funeral was taking place. I asked her to please laugh at the sight of me in that ridiculous moving van. I put my foot on the gas and accelerated in faith. I came up to 1300 East and felt impressed to take a right. Bingo. 1300 East soon turned into Canyon Rd, which put me back on course with my faulty directions.
I made it just in time to sing and play the songs that Reva had carefully chosen for her own services. I barely know Reva Taylor, but we were meant to be friends. This I know. She must have been one special lady judging by the hoards of gorgeous flowers adorning the stand and the sprawl of family and friends extending to the very back wall of the overflow. In a career field that often feels so competitive and frivolous, thank you Reva, for giving it meaning in my life.
Now, if only you could help me find my car keys.

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Ever wonder what I do when no one is watching? I won’t tell you everything, but I will share what I did whilst staying at a host family’s home in Las Vegas a few weeks ago.

I was down in good old Sin City with two back-to-back performances on a Thursday and Friday night. I secretly wish I could tell you that I was performing to sold-out audiences at The Colosseum, but these were church-girl performances (don’t get me wrong guys—we had fun! Right?) I stayed with my friend Liz who always makes me the tastiest homemade beef jerky when she knows we’ll be seeing each other (thanks Liz).

This was the first time I had stayed in Liz’s home. It’s always interesting staying in someone else’s home. I’m fascinated by how other people live—how they cook, their DVD collection, the way they decorate, etc. One can tell how much Liz values spirituality by all of the inspirational quotes on her wall and the family pictures that adorn her shelves.

Before going to bed the night before, Liz informed me that she would be leaving for work early and to make myself at home when I awoke in the morning. I habitually exercise in the mornings, so the first thing I did after awakening was peruse the DVD collection for some kind of aerobic workout. All I could find was a copy of Richard Simmons’s “Sweatin’ to the Oldies. “ Nah, I thought to myself. I scanned each shelf again. There’s got to be something else. Zilch. So, I put on my workout duds and decided to give Richard Simmons a chance. After all, he had sold a gazillion copies of his workout videos. I would soon find out that this fact alone might be the greatest mystery known to man.

It started out with a skit where Richard Simmons is searching everywhere for his mother. He finally finds her making illegal copies of his workout tapes in the back room of an obscure warehouse. He wails as the police haul her off to the Big House, “Oh, Mother!!! How could you?!!” All of this is of course, an attempt to prevent people from ripping off his videos. Oh brother, I think. Let’s get on with this.

The workout takes place in a high school prom-themed gymnasium with a live band and mullet-headed lead singer on electric. I sway side to side with Richard and his out of shape comrades. Then we start shaking our hands like we are flicking water off our fingertips. I look around to make sure no one is watching me, even though I know I am alone. Can you stop and just picture this? Yes, Mindy Gledhill all alone doing a Richard Simmons workout? Too funny. Needless to say, I didn’t make it through five minutes of the workout, not because I was sweating, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m sorry Mr. Simmons. I guess I can’t endorse you.

I gave up on working out and scouted out the kitchen for breakfast. I found the avocado salsa that I had eaten the night before and ate a bowl of that (and two others later on for lunch and dinner). Now THAT is something I can endorse. Seriously amazing stuff. I’m off to get the recipe from Liz to post for you all.