Do Not Pass Me By

Do Not Pass Me By

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I’m sittin out by Lake Pontchartrain, lettin the stillness hold me like my grandmother used to. But it ain’t really still. Naw, the water’s talkin. Not loud, not bold, but just enough to stir somethin deep in your spirit. Each ripple seem to be reachin out like it's tryin to recall a memory. Or maybe remind me of one I done tried to bury.

Out of nowhere, I hear her voice.

My grandmama’s voice. It didn’t glide or dance like a trained singer, but it stood strong like an oak tree planted in red dirt. That voice was a lullaby to my storms. She had hands that told stories browned by work, softened by care. When she touched you, you knew you was seen. Not judged, not fixed just seen. That kind of touch make you believe the world still got a little sacred left in it.

She used to hum that old hymn:

“Pass me not, O gentle Savior, hear my humble cry…”

And let me tell you, bless her heart, she sang with more spirit than sound. But Spirit don’t need no perfect pitch. Spirit listen for pain, for truth, for a soul that ain’t givin up. When she sang, even the chipped dishes and old wallpaper turned holy. The whole house would hush, like heaven was leanin in to listen.

“While on others Thou art callin, do not pass me by…”

She’d sing that on days when the pantry looked like a whisper and the light bill was tappin on her shoulder. She’d sing when her heart was heavy and her feet was tired. That song was her anchor. Her way of holdin on when life was tryin to snatch her up. Now here I am, all these years later, hummin that same plea not with my lips, but with the tired places in me that still remember how to hope.

“Let me at Thy throne of mercy, find a sweet relief…”

Truth is, I ain’t always known how to pray. Sometimes all I got is broken thoughts and gasps that don’t make it into words. But she showed me you don’t need fancy prayers. Sometimes all it takes is showin up in your spirit. And tonight, sittin by this restless water, I feel my soul bowin, not from weakness but because I know Who holds me.

I done danced with grief more times than I care to count. She wear different dresses some days she show up in silence, other days in a smile that ends too soon. But tonight, grief looks like this lake deep and wide and carryin more than I got words for.

I used to shout into the night, askin “Where you at?”

But she never shouted. She just sang. And now I get it. When you sing through sorrow, it becomes a kind of prayer. It’s like your soul reachin out a hand and The Creator takin it, no questions asked.

Let me tell you a little story. There was a poor farmer down in the backwoods of Alabama. He had one mule, one field, and one prayer. Folks laughed when he’d talk to the sky like he was talkin to kin. But every season, rain came when he needed it, and his crop stood tall. When folks finally asked him what his secret was, he said, “I just treat the soil like I treat my spirit tend it, speak over it, and believe The Creator’s got a hand in it all.”

That old farmer ain’t have much, but he had enough. And that’s what I’m learnin out here by this water you might not have plenty, but if you got The Creator, you got enough.

“Trustin only in Thy merit, would I seek Thy face…”

Grandmama trusted The Creator when there wasn’t no reason to except she knew Who she belonged to. She had more faith than groceries sometimes, but her spirit was always full. She’d look at me with eyes that said, “You got purpose, child, even if the world don’t see it yet.” And Lord knows I strayed, but her love never did.

“Heal my wounded, broken spirit…”

That’s me. Wounded. Broken. But still breathin. Still hopin. And that ain’t weakness that’s testimony. To still be here means I ain’t been forgotten. Maybe I ain’t walkin tall, but I’m walkin. And that’s enough some days.

They say, “A tree with deep roots don’t fear no wind.”

Well, her roots run deep in me. Her prayers still echo in my bones. Storms tried to shake me, but I stayed grounded not cause I’m strong, but cause I’m anchored to somethin bigger.

“Thou the spring of all my comfort, more than life to me…”

I ain’t got her voice, but I got her spirit. I hum what she sang. I close my eyes and let it rise from my chest like a quiet hallelujah. That’s where the comfort lives in remembrance, in surrender, in the spaces between what’s been lost and what’s still promised.

“Whom have I on earth beside Thee? Whom in heaven but Thee?”

That line? That’s the soul’s question. You only ask that when you done tried everything else and still feel empty. When you realize what you need ain’t found in things, but in presence. In being held when you ain’t got strength to stand.

And I feel it now her hands, this breeze, the hush of the trees, the hush of The Creator sayin, “I see you, child.”

And I whisper it, not with fear but with hope:

“Creator… don’t pass me by. I’m still here. I’m holdin on. And I believe You see me.”