Prince

Let’s talk about Prince.

He was a genius.

Also, the hair.

(Please note: This is Prince’s most recent passport photo. MY most recent passport photo was taken when I was pregnant. I’m so happy I get to use it for a decade!)

But Prince. And the high heels.

And the fact that for awhile he was “the artist formerly known as Prince.”

Is it too soon to make fun of that? Yes? Too soon?

When I was a young girl and my revered teenaged Aunt Jana was getting ready for her prom, she wore a purple dress. And the theme was Purple Rain. So Prince has always been associated with glamour and nail polish and Aqua Net for me. The trifecta of happiness.

Prince lived in Chanhassen, which is a suburb of Minneapolis. This endears me to him. No offense to L.A. and New York, but any alarmingly petite musical icon who chooses to spend his time in Minnesota gets a point or two for swimming upstream.

So I’ve been seeing the tributes, the odes, the love for Prince, the Spike Lee dance party. And I just have to wonder how people will remember me when I’m dead. I vote dance party after a really lovely unaccompanied Bach cello number. And man, do I hope there’s some laughter. And lots of making fun of my bad hair years. Too soon? I don’t think so.

I feel to the fiber of my being that this is not all there is, this life, this time. I love the spot in Ecclesiastes that says God has put eternity in a person’s heart. We aren’t wired for short gigs but for the long haul, for the after, for the real life and freedom God gives with open hands.  

I may or may not have made my junior high daughter listen to “Let’s Go Crazy” this morning on the way to school. She seemed considerably less moved than I was. She’s a little wary of a mother who can turn the death of a rock star into a discussion of mortality and God’s goodness.

She’ll come around. I’ll hit her up with “Raspberry Beret” and “Kiss” after school. Pretty sure that before long, I’ll get her to dance.