One morning when I am about eight years old, Mom drops me off at elementary school especially early. In my third-grade classroom, there are only a few other students, along with our much-adored teacher Jane Hill. Miss Hill is at her desk, scribbling away and making the strangest squeaky sounds just under her breath. The murmured tune goes up and down lickety-split; at one point, she goes into a high, high falsetto, and the next she plummets into a basso profundo. A smile plays on her lips, but she pretends not to notice us students drawing closer.
“What’s that?” I ask, so excited I am dancing in place.
Raising only her eyebrows, Miss Hill reminds me to stand still. She’s the first person to let me know that people can listen to me better if I’m not in constant motion—and that I don’t have to be so jittery about speaking up.
“Just a little song I know,” she says.
By now, the whole class has assembled, and we beg her to sing it for us. This is what we hear:
Nancy, where are you going? Upstairs, to take a bath.
Nancy, with legs like toothpicks, and a neck like a giraffe.
Nancy got in the bathtub, Nancy pulled out the plug.
[squeaky falsetto] Oh my goodness, oh my soul! There goes Nancy down that hole!
[growling bass] Blub, blub, blub …
What??!! Our serious teacher is singing this outrageously silly song! She teaches it to us, and all day long, a muttered “blub, blub, blub” from somewhere in the classroom will have us all in stitches again. This memory seems so out of step with the seriousness of this day, this week, this month. Still, if I listen to what my spirit is trying to tell me, I realize that my brilliant teacher’s lesson speaks to these times too. In the midst of worry, the gifts of goofiness and laughter remind us that we are wondrous multifaceted human beings always—always—worthy of pleasure and joy.
~Rev. Nancy Palmer Jones
