When the Hills are
Alive Again
Some memories do not fade;
they simply wait for the
right moment to sing again.
The first time I watched The Sound of Music, I
was seven years old — the same age as little Gretl in the movie. It was a
birthday gift from my mother, a promise that filled my heart with excitement
long before the day arrived. I counted the weeks, wished time would move
faster, and sang the songs endlessly at home.
 |
| The hills are alive… and so is memory. The hills are alive… and so is gratitude. |
“She is gentle, she is wild… she’s a headache, she’s
an angel…”
When I heard those words, I secretly smiled. Wasn’t
that exactly what every little girl was — a bundle of mischief and wonder, a
puzzle wrapped in love?
“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a
reward from him.” — Psalm 127:3
Years passed, and yet the music quietly followed me.
At university, two Hong Kong classmates, Vera and Joni, suddenly invited me
into a singing competition with no preparation at all. We chose Edelweiss.
Perhaps because the song had lived in my heart for so long, it felt natural to
sing. We won third prize, but the true reward was the joy of sharing something
beautiful together — one more memory tucked gently into life’s pocket.
Even more beautifully, life seemed to circle back in
quiet ways. In my translation course, Professor Ting (丁贞婉教授) — the very translator of The
Sound of Music into Chinese — stood before us as the professor of the
course.
I write her name here with gratitude, hoping more students who once learned under her guidance may also remember and smile.
I remember telling my mother proudly, “I have read
Professor Ting’s translation three times.” My mother responded with surprise, “OH,
You DID?” — a moment that still makes me smile.
Professor Ting played an important role in shaping how
I understood translation — not simply as changing words from one language to
another, but as carrying meaning, culture, and emotion from one heart to
another. Her lecturing was steady, wise, and quietly inspiring; many years
later, I still find myself grateful for what I learned from sitting in her
classroom. Even now, as I think of her — alert, graceful, and still full of
clarity in her nineties — my heart feels deep respect and affection for a lecturer
who helped her students listen carefully to language and to life itself.
Moments like this remind me that God often weaves our
paths together long before we recognize the pattern.
“To everything there is a season, and a time for
every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1
Now, after many decades, I watch the movie The
Sound of Music again. The songs are familiar, yet they feel deeper —
touching places that only time and experience can reach. I realize that music
does not only belong to youth; it travels with us, growing richer as our hearts
grow wider.
The hills are alive… and so is memory.
The hills are alive… and so is gratitude.
As Maria sings, I hear my own soul responding — a
heart still willing to sing once more, even after many seasons of life. Music
reminds me that joy is not lost with age; it simply matures into something
quieter, gentler, and perhaps more sacred.
“I will sing of the Lord’s great love forever; with
my mouth I will make your faithfulness known through all generations.” — Psalm
89:1
Today, as the film plays again, I feel the same
childlike wonder rising inside me. Not because time has stood still, but
because grace has carried me faithfully through the years. Childhood songs, a
mother’s voice, youthful laughter, beloved teachers, and present gratitude —
all become one song of praise.
And I realize this:
The sound of music was never only in the hills.
It was growing quietly within my heart all along.
