It’s almost cliché that so many movie and television depictions of interactions between troubled adult and psychologist begin with, “…tell me about your relationship with your father.” Or mother. Or whoever.

The idea is to get the person to consider who they are, where they are and how they got there.

Good, bad or other, one of the greatest gifts we have is our past. Understanding where we once were brings a true prospective to where we are now, whether physically, emotionally or psychologically.

Our past can serve as an indication of how far we’ve come in some cases and point us back toward home in others.

Music has, for as long as I can remember, been a huge part of my life. I make it, listen to it and have had the opportunity to work with music professionally for nearly a quarter century at this point.

And I can still recall the very day — and interaction — which changed the way I listened to music.

As a 13-year-old city kid, the freedom, fresh air and good ol’ hard work of farm life held a certain appeal to me. For the summer, I was invited to live and work with my cousin (12 years my senior) and her husband on their family farm.

Tom Maginley was a strong, funny and hard-working son-of-a-farmer and seemed to me to know a little about everything. And on the day music changed, I was on a 30-mile ride from their home to his family’s farm with Tom’s wife.

An educator during the school year, Memory was a well-educated daughter of a schoolteacher, my dad’s sister. Both my dad and aunt were adopted into their family and it was an odd family dynamic.

In fact, I’d never met any of them until I was 12 years old and was immediately fascinated.

On this ride, Memory turned and asked me what kind of music I liked. Declaring I was a rock music fan, she asked if there was a specific band or song I liked.

Out of the blue, I said, “American Woman” by the Guess Who (hey, it was the 1970s).

She seemed familiar with the song but asked me to repeat some of the lyrics.

Then she asked, “Do you know what the song is about?” I didn’t.

I had never thought about it. It just sounded cool.

It had the word American in it, so it flew past every radar in my home, but it was widely revered as an anti-war protest song. A war into which Memory’s husband and brother-in-law were drafted.

While I don’t care much for it now, I don’t think I stopped liking the song right away. But the encounter led me to listen more closely and reflect on what songs are really saying.

Whether the cry of a generation, a memory of love found or lost, or the adoration for a God whose love for His people is unwavering, we owe it to ourselves to pause, listen and learn.

“May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, Lord, my rock and my Redeemer.”
— Psalm 19:14 (CSB)