Modern worship songs like "Goodness of God" can be unexpectedly difficult for people who are hard of hearing because the musical and textual structure offers very few anchors. The long, unpatterned melodic lines mean there’s no predictable contour to anticipate, so singers who rely on partial hearing or lip‑reading can’t easily “feel” where the phrase is going. Irregular phrasing adds to the challenge: without a steady metrical pulse or balanced line lengths, the song becomes something you must already know rather than something you can join. This is a short story about that issue.
Searching for the Goodness of God
On a windswept Sunday morning at La Chapelle des Pas, the church gathered slowly, as it always did, with the familiar shuffle of coats and the soft thud of hymnbooks being set aside for the service sheets. Among them was Margaret Le Brocq, who had sung in that church for more than sixty years. She had a voice that once carried confidently through the nave, but now she relied on hearing aids that whistled at the wrong moments and missed half the consonants she needed.
She took her usual place near the front, close enough to see the vicar’s lips and far enough from the speakers to avoid the sudden bursts of sound that made her flinch. The opening hymn was one she loved, “How Great Thou Art”, metrical, steady, shaped like a well‑built granite wall. She could follow its rhythm even when she couldn’t hear every word. The congregation rose, and Margaret rose with them, her voice finding the familiar path of the melody.
But after the readings, the worship band stepped forward. A young guitarist smiled nervously, tapped his pedal, and began the opening chords of “Goodness of God”. The congregation murmured with recognition. Margaret braced herself.
The first verse unfurled in long, drifting lines. She watched the worship leader’s mouth, but the phrases were so extended, so uneven, that she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. The melody rose and fell without the predictable shape she depended on. She tried to join in, but her voice faltered, unsure of its footing.
By the chorus, the band swelled. The drums softened but still blurred the consonants she needed to anchor the words. The vowels stretched into a warm, indistinct wash. She could see the joy on the younger faces around her, but she felt herself slipping to the edges of the moment, as though she were watching worship rather than participating in it.
Then came the bridge, the emotional heart of the song. The worship leader closed her eyes, the band leaned into the swell, and the congregation lifted their hands. But for Margaret, the bridge was a fog. The words repeated, but without clear articulation, they became a loop she couldn’t enter. She didn’t know whether they were beginning again or ending or shifting into something new. She stood still, hands folded, feeling the distance widen.
When the song finally settled, the vicar stepped forward with a gentle prayer. Margaret exhaled. She wasn’t angry, she understood the sincerity, the devotion, the beauty others found in these songs. But she also felt the quiet ache of being left outside something meant to gather everyone in.
Searching for the Goodness of God
On a windswept Sunday morning at La Chapelle des Pas, the church gathered slowly, as it always did, with the familiar shuffle of coats and the soft thud of hymnbooks being set aside for the service sheets. Among them was Margaret Le Brocq, who had sung in that church for more than sixty years. She had a voice that once carried confidently through the nave, but now she relied on hearing aids that whistled at the wrong moments and missed half the consonants she needed.
She took her usual place near the front, close enough to see the vicar’s lips and far enough from the speakers to avoid the sudden bursts of sound that made her flinch. The opening hymn was one she loved, “How Great Thou Art”, metrical, steady, shaped like a well‑built granite wall. She could follow its rhythm even when she couldn’t hear every word. The congregation rose, and Margaret rose with them, her voice finding the familiar path of the melody.
But after the readings, the worship band stepped forward. A young guitarist smiled nervously, tapped his pedal, and began the opening chords of “Goodness of God”. The congregation murmured with recognition. Margaret braced herself.
The first verse unfurled in long, drifting lines. She watched the worship leader’s mouth, but the phrases were so extended, so uneven, that she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. The melody rose and fell without the predictable shape she depended on. She tried to join in, but her voice faltered, unsure of its footing.
By the chorus, the band swelled. The drums softened but still blurred the consonants she needed to anchor the words. The vowels stretched into a warm, indistinct wash. She could see the joy on the younger faces around her, but she felt herself slipping to the edges of the moment, as though she were watching worship rather than participating in it.
Then came the bridge, the emotional heart of the song. The worship leader closed her eyes, the band leaned into the swell, and the congregation lifted their hands. But for Margaret, the bridge was a fog. The words repeated, but without clear articulation, they became a loop she couldn’t enter. She didn’t know whether they were beginning again or ending or shifting into something new. She stood still, hands folded, feeling the distance widen.
When the song finally settled, the vicar stepped forward with a gentle prayer. Margaret exhaled. She wasn’t angry, she understood the sincerity, the devotion, the beauty others found in these songs. But she also felt the quiet ache of being left outside something meant to gather everyone in.
After the service, as people drifted toward coffee and biscuits, the guitarist approached her. “Mrs Le Brocq, did the music sound all right today?” he asked, earnest and hopeful.
She smiled kindly. “It was heartfelt,” she said. “But some of us need clearer paths to walk. The old hymns give us steps we can feel, even when we can’t hear them.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Most don’t,” she replied, placing a hand on his arm. “But worship is a shared table. Everyone should be able to find their place.”
As she walked out into the bright Jersey morning, the sea wind tugging at her coat, she felt no bitterness, only a quiet hope that the church she loved might learn to weave its music in ways that welcomed every voice, even the ones that could no longer hear the tune.
She smiled kindly. “It was heartfelt,” she said. “But some of us need clearer paths to walk. The old hymns give us steps we can feel, even when we can’t hear them.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Most don’t,” she replied, placing a hand on his arm. “But worship is a shared table. Everyone should be able to find their place.”
As she walked out into the bright Jersey morning, the sea wind tugging at her coat, she felt no bitterness, only a quiet hope that the church she loved might learn to weave its music in ways that welcomed every voice, even the ones that could no longer hear the tune.
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