Musical Mondays
about….
El Condor Pasa (If I Could) – Simon & Garfunkel
8/4/2025
This song brings me back to a very specific moment in 1973. My mom and I were sitting on the couch watching Voyage of the Yes, made-for-TV movie with Desi Arnaz Jr. (who I was completely in love with at the time) and Mike Evans. It was a coming-of-age sailing adventure—pretty cheesy in hindsight—but what really stuck with me wasn’t the plot. It was the rare, quiet way my mom watched the whole thing with me, without offering life advice or commentary, just being there.
That kind of memory lingers. And it’s the music that brings it back.
Is there a song from a movie or show that instantly brings someone—or some moment—back to you?
Reflection prompt: Is there a song from a movie or show that instantly brings someone—or some moment—back to you?
Choosing Music for a Funeral, Memorial, or Celebration of Life
7/28/2025
Planning a service after the death of a loved one often brings a wave of decisions—some practical, some deeply emotional. Choosing the music is one of the most personal parts of the process. It may feel overwhelming, especially when grief is fresh, and emotions are layered.
Recently, a family member of mine died after a long decline. We had been expecting it for a while, and when the moment came, there was both sadness and a quiet sense of relief. That complexity is normal. Grief can be mixed with release, gratitude, or even peace—and the music you choose can reflect that.
Music speaks when words fall short.
It can:
Reflect who your loved one was
Offer comfort to those attending
Create moments of shared memory
Acknowledge both sorrow and love
Some families choose classical pieces or religious hymns. Others pick songs their person loved, or music that brings a smile through the tears. When my mom died, we played “Wind Beneath My Wings” by Bette Midler. For others, it might be:
“Because You Loved Me” – Celine Dion
“Candle in the Wind” – Elton John
“Dancing in the Sky” – Dani and Lizzy
“See You Again” – Wiz Khalifa & Charlie Puth
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow / What a Wonderful World” – Israel Kamakawiwoʻole
“My Kind of Town” – Frank Sinatra (for someone who loved Chicago or called it home)
Including a city or place-specific song like “My Kind of Town” can be a beautiful nod to a person’s roots, memories, or identity—whether it was their hometown, favorite travel spot, or simply a place they carried in their heart.
Questions to help you choose:
Is there a song that reminds you of them instantly?
What music did they always turn up when it played?
What song could offer comfort or reflection to those attending?
Are you looking for something traditional, personal, or uplifting?
Is there a song that reflects their favorite place, era, or style?
If your feelings are complicated—grief mixed with relief or exhaustion—is there a song that speaks to that too?
Grief is not one-dimensional. Music doesn’t have to be either. Whether it’s a single song or a full playlist, your choices become part of the story you’re telling about their life and legacy.
Jaws — John Williams
7/21/2025
“Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum-da-dum-da-dum!”
Have you ever had a theme song get stuck in your head?
This weekend, I watched the 50th anniversary celebration of Jaws and found myself captivated by Steven Spielberg talking about the music. That iconic two-note theme made the shark terrifying—not because we could see it, but because we could feel it coming. The music created tension, anticipation, and dread before anything even happened.
It got me thinking: sometimes grief does the same thing. A sound, a song, a few piano notes—and suddenly we’re back in a memory, a moment, a feeling. Music doesn’t just accompany grief. It scores it.
This Week’s Reflection Prompt:
What’s a song (or sound) that cues your grief?
What emotions rise up when you hear it?
Is it tied to a person, a season of life, a goodbye?
What part of your story does it hold?
In the Blood – John Mayer
7/14/2025
John Mayer’s “In the Blood” is a haunting reflection on family, identity, and the complicated inheritance we carry from those we come from. It’s a poignant companion to the experience of estrangement—where grief, longing, and self-preservation often coexist.
Here are just a few ways this song speaks to estrangement:
Inherited Wounds and Patterns
“How much of my mother has my mother left in me?”
“How much of my father am I destined to become?”
Many who are estranged from family carry a quiet fear: of becoming the very people who hurt them, or of being unable to separate identity from inherited pain.
Identity and Longing
“Could I change it if I wanted? Can I rise above the flood?”
Estrangement is rarely simple. Mayer captures the ambivalence—wanting to be known and connected, but needing distance to stay emotionally safe.
Emotional Invisibility
“Will I dim the lights inside me just to satisfy someone?”
This lyric speaks to the years many spend quieting themselves to keep the peace. For some, estrangement becomes a way to reclaim authenticity.
“In the Blood” doesn’t offer “closure”. Instead, it honors the ache and ambiguity. It resonates with those grieving relationships that never had a clean ending—only questions, boundaries, and the work of making meaning in the aftermath.
Give it a listen if you’re exploring the intersections of grief, identity, and family distance.
Now Comes the Night — Rob Thomas
6/30/2025
This song holds a place in my heart that’s hard to name.
Now Comes the Night isn’t just about death. It’s about love at the end. It’s about staying close when everything else is falling away.
When my dad was dying, I wanted to be there to comfort him. To sit with him in his final hours as a way of honoring all the times he had been there for me. Our relationship wasn’t perfect—there were hurts and distance and unspoken things—but in those last days, what mattered most was presence.
Listening to these words:
“Now comes the night
Feel it fading away
And the soul underneath
Is it all that remains?
…Let us hold to each other
Until the end of our days
And when the hour is upon us
…You will not be forgotten
And you will not be alone.”
I hear my own silent promise to him. That he wouldn’t die alone. That even though I fell asleep before he took his last breath, my love was there—woven into that room, into his breathing, into the ending.
This song reminds me of the ache of wanting to do it perfectly. And it reminds me of the grace of showing up anyway, in all our humanness, because love was there. Even in the sleep. Even in the imperfection.
Now Comes the Night is for anyone who has kept vigil. For anyone who tried to ease a loved one’s fear. For anyone who wanted to honor a life, no matter how complicated the relationship was.
Listen if you need a song that understands.
Reflection prompt:
Who have you kept company with at the end of their life?
What did you hope they knew before they left?
I Drive Your Truck – Lee Brice
5/26/2025
On this Memorial Day, we honor the ways grief moves—through roads driven, songs played, and stories remembered.
The song “I Drive Your Truck” was inspired by a true story. U.S. Army Sgt. Jared Monti was killed in action in Afghanistan while trying to save a fellow soldier. His father, Paul Monti, told NPR that when he misses his son, he drives Jared’s truck—still dusty from military gear, still filled with traces of him.
That interview led to the creation of this song, now a deeply moving tribute to how grief is carried not just in memory, but in motion.
Lyric spotlight:
"I drive your truck / I roll every window down / And I burn up / Every back road in this town..."
On days like today, that truck becomes more than a vehicle. It’s a way of staying close. A way of remembering. A way of saying: I’m still here. I’m still holding you.
Reflection prompt:
Who do you still carry with you?
Grass is Blue — Dolly Parton
5/19/2025
There are a handful of songs that instantly transport me back to the early days of grieving my mom. I was 23 years old when she died by suicide. She had struggled with mental illness and substance use, but I always believed she would get better. It truly never occurred to me that she could actually die. The healed version of her always seemed just around the corner—just out of reach. In hindsight, it’s not surprising that she died, but at the time, it was deeply shocking.
Her suicide forever altered the path of my life and changed the way I saw the world.
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My mom loved Dolly Parton, and listening to some of her favorites brought me solace after her death.
“Coat of Many Colors” was the closest thing I could get to a hug, “Jolene” felt like dancing in the living room, and “I Will Always Love You” sounded like ….