Ian Tyson died last month. I felt sad when I learned of his passing. The voice of this cowboy singer has floated in the background of my life for nearly three decades. I can’t claim the title of cowboy, but years of breaking horses, riding canyons and helping friends work cattle forged a strong connection to Tyson’s music.
            His songs swirl with dust, blizzards and the rugged life of ordinary ranch hands. A  rodeo rider himself, Tyson took up the guitar while recovering from getting thrown off a bronc. Along with this authenticity, reverence for history and the way that one’s locality shapes one’s perspective undergird his work. One song, in particular, seems to have been written with the ghosts of horses from my own region in mind:            
            Music colors the way we experience life and deepens our longing for God. Over the years, the grit and humility in Tyson’s lyrics have spurred me—pardon the pun—to keep my life simple and my preaching real:
              Other priests, no doubt, are inspired by other sorts of music: Gregorian chant for traditionalists, blue grass for those who minister in Appalachia, rap for those in the inner city and Norteño for those closer to the border.
           Nevertheless, the calloused hands and dented trucks in Tyson’s songs will always remind this priest of hardworking fishermen in the Gospel. And his odes to the wind will echo prayers raised to the One who clothed the horse with a flowing mane and makes the arid plains bloom with praise.