When the Songs Return Home; Old Hymns, New Ache

 Last month, I found myself seated at yet another wake service — the kind of gathering that tugs at your chest and leaves a lingering ache long after the tent is folded and the chairs are stacked away.

In the quiet moments between small talk and shared silences, I caught myself reminiscing about the old songs — the hymns from the Golden Bells and their tender cousin, Nyimbo Cia Kuinira Ngai. Songs I grew up with. Songs that wrapped themselves around the weary and sang life back into tired bones.

I told the group how I longed to visit a small village church in the heart of Central Kenya — maybe one nestled between hills — just to hear those songs again. Properly. Loudly. Unrushed. Without piano keys overpowering the rawness of the voices. Just the weight of humanity pouring itself out in song.

We tried to sing a few that evening, fumbling through lines, grasping at forgotten verses, laughing when the words danced off our tongues. Our attempts were feeble, but my heart — my heart felt so alive.

I did not know that life had been making its own plans.

I did not know that in less than a week, I would be singing those very songs… this time, at my cousin’s wake.

That same kind of tent.
Those familiar chairs.
The air, thick with grief, yet laced with nostalgia.

And there I was — singing. Remembering. Feeling the weight of every syllable, because they were no longer just songs. They were stories. They were homecomings. They were comfort in a language my soul had understood long before my mind ever did.

I sang for Olive.
I sang for me.
I sang for the little girl who grew up surrounded by those songs — the girl who sometimes forgot just how grounding they were.

Life is strange like that. You yearn for something, thinking you will chase it down — only for it to find you at your most vulnerable, when you least expect it. When you are seated in a tent, mourning the very people who once sang those songs beside you.

And maybe that is the way of life — songs finding their way back to us when we need them the most.

Not in polished choirs.
Not in choreographed services.
But in raw gatherings of the broken — where voices crack, memories flood, and healing tiptoes quietly into the room.

I am learning to hold moments loosely. To let songs come and go. To receive them whenever they return — even if they come bearing sorrow.

Because in their quiet way, they remind me:

Even here, there is life.
Even here, there is home.
Even here, we still sing.

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P.S. I wrote this piece last month, in the middle of mourning and reflection. I never quite got around to posting it. But this week, as I was rummaging through my drafts, I came across it and thought — it is beautiful.

What caught my heart was how deeply I longed to sing those songs in my mother tongue. How awe-inspiring that thought was. How homely. How natural. It was such a comforting reminiscence.

And yet — life, in its wild way, did not just let me wish. It dragged me right into that moment. I do not even know what to wish for anymore.

I still have not fully come to terms with losing my dear friend. But somehow, I believe — life will heal us.

So tell me...

What are you wishing for today?

Love,
Njeri