Grant Batchelder

“Sing unto him a new song; play skillfully with a loud noise.”
—Psalm 33:3 (KJV)

Dear Friends,

The hardest music I’ve ever sung was for my mentor’s funeral.

He wasn’t family by blood, but by spirit. He was my church choir director, my English teacher, and the one who taught me to love music, poetry, and history—not just as subjects, but as sacred ways of understanding the world and giving glory to God. I named my first son after him.

When he died, I sang in the choir for his funeral. I honestly don’t know how I did it. Grief made it hard to breathe, let alone sing. But I could hear his voice in my head, words he’d told us often: “When we sing for a funeral, we put our pain and sorrow to the side, because the family needs our strength of song.”

But this time, I was the family.

Still, I sang. Not because it was easy, but because it was the only offering I had. I sang joyfully to the Lord that day. I didn’t bypass my grief. I poured it into the music. It became a prayer.

Psalm 33 opens with a call to bold praise, with harp, skill, and courage. But it closes in stillness: “Our soul hath patiently tarried for the Lord… our heart shall rejoice in him.” That space between strength and waiting is where I often find myself as a church musician.

My mentor was in the pews for the first service I ever played, and the first time I performed on the organ publicly. He encouraged me to bring my full self, mind, voice, doubt, devotion, into worship.

At Saint Philip’s, we still sing many of the pieces from his funeral. Each time, the memory rises. Grief, yes, but also deep thanks. I let it move through me into the music, as a prayer. For his life. For my children. For the gift of music itself.

Praise isn’t always ease or volume. Sometimes it’s a quiet act of love. And somehow, when we sing it, even through sorrow, God receives it as joy.

I leave you with these two questions for yourself:

What memories live in the music you sing, and how might you offer them as prayer?

What new song is God calling you to sing, even if it comes through sorrow?

Blessings,

—Grant