Nonny Nonny

Chris Rice turns a childhood memory into a meditation on authorship and eternity, opening with lemon-colored summers, popsicle stains, plastic army men, and the feeling that even at seven he owed thanks to whoever was writing his story. That conceit carries the whole song: life as a biography, with God as the Author. The chorus drops into a nonsense refrain — "Nonny Nonny" — that works like a river, washing over the singer, lifting him up for air, and carrying him downstream while he runs the earth and watches the sky. The second verse reaches into adolescence and borrows from C.S. Lewis, describing ordinary moments that felt like catching a glimpse of Aslan's mane, mystery pulling him toward love rather than argument. By the final verse the scope widens: grown-up lives tangled together by the billions, a last page waiting to be turned, and the startling hope that looking the Author in the face is not an ending but a beginning. What lingers is the image of all these remembered years as only the first sentence of something far longer.