Let It Be (Song Series #11)

Let It Be (Song Series #11)

my son in our living room
my son in our living room, letting it be

So this was odd. My husband and I were idling in the pizzeria last Friday, waiting for our slices to come out of the oven, when the song changed on the radio.

And in my hour of darkness,
she is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

“I love this one,” I said to Rob. I hadn’t thought of it in the longest time. I added it to my mental list of songs I want to learn to play.

That was that—ate my lunch, went back to my desk. A few hours later, my phone dinged with a message from one of my best friends.

 Any chance you'd be available to sing 
"Let It Be" at a funeral on Sunday?

The funeral was for a 14-year-old girl who had taken her own life.

I’m sure the last thing you want to hear today is a story about a funeral, and in fact I’m not going to tell it right now. That story deserves a separate space of its own. Enough to say this: To be trusted with this song for this family of this girl was a rare privilege.

I learned “Let It Be” for them. In the thirty-or-so times that my husband & I practiced it, that song became a spacious, comforting, quiet space for me to dwell in, too—a space where I could ponder some things troubling me.

So I wanted to share it with you, too, because maybe you, too, are having a day of grief.



Written by John Lennon/Paul McCartney; vocals/viola: June; guitar: Rob 


Maybe your grief today is the same as mine: Being gravely worried for the human family the morning after a shocking election. (It surprised me to find that I experienced this election primarily as a mother. Last night, my heaviest thoughts were How will I talk to my son about this? How many children and families are going to suffer because of this?)

But maybe that’s not your sadness today. Whatever your particular hour of darkness at the moment, I’m posting this one for you. May love hover over you. XOXOXO


4 Replies to “Let It Be (Song Series #11)”

  1. Thank you, June. A poem, from one mother to another:

    Good Bones
    by Maggie Smith

    Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
    Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
    in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
    a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
    I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
    fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
    estimate, though I keep this from my children.
    For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
    For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
    sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
    is at least half terrible, and for every kind
    stranger, there is one who would break you,
    though I keep this from my children. I am trying
    to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
    walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
    about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
    right? You could make this place beautiful.

    Love, love,

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