Why I sing.

Saturday morning brought news that a terrible tragedy struck my extended family. My beloved Godparents, Aunt Helen and Uncle Doug, had been killed walking from their hotel in Georgia to a restaurant for dinner. Throughout the day, word was spread to family members far and wide and eventually their children posted on Facebook, giving us the ok to begin sharing condolences, memories, photos, grief.

I suspect that many of us are still in shock and will be for some time. We are spread all over the country so who is able to gather and when is unknown. While many of us are "alone" as we grieve, we are in good company and are never really alone. I know that when we gather, there will be singing.

My Dad comes from a family of 9 children, 8 who survived to adulthood. They did not have an easy life - many children, little money - raising a family in the 20's, 30's and 40's was difficult for so many. The stories that I love and remember center around the dinner table (there was always room for a friend even though money was scarce), the church (it was a central part of family life), and music.

music.

My Dad tells a story of being a very little boy with curly hair, sitting on the front steps in his Mama's hat, singing at the top of his lungs. He and his siblings sang in the church and school choirs through their growing up years. He and Helen (or Honey Anne as she was called) sang "A Bushel and a Peck" in a school talent show. They sang. Together.

As I was growing up, the extended family grew too and eventually there were 25 grandchildren. As one of the younger cousins, it was easy to get lost - Helen and Doug somehow managed to make me feel so loved and important. They reminded me that I belonged. The music continued. I can close my eyes to this day and picture my Dad and Helen singing "Morning Has Broken," harmonizing effortlessly. We camped together over the years in various places and with various combinations of the families. There was always singing around the fire. I learned my first "naughty" song at one of these fires. "My Father was a Fireman..." If you know the song, you'll get the joke. If you don't you'll have to ask me someday. As a little girl, I just listened to and sang along with the incredible harmonies created as the song progresses. As a 20-something with a husband and 2 children, we sang this again at a long awaited reunion in Wyoming. Jeff has never let me forget that I did not "get" the joke until that year! I can hear Helen and Doug's laughter as I remember the day.

Reunions and gatherings for weddings, funerals, graduations, were all excuses to have a family choir. You haven't heard the Table Grace sung until you hear my family sing it! I can see Helen singing "On Eagles Wings" with other family and friends at my wedding. Such treasured memories.

We made music. Although the gatherings are much further between and everyone shifts as my Dad's generation passes away and more Great-Grandchildren are added, we still do. A small handful of 100 or so members of this family make music for a living. For the rest it is simply a part of what we do and who we are. We sing.

This is why I sing. We sing to celebrate. We sing to pray. We sing to grieve and we sing to laugh.

With a family as large and spread out as mine is, it is inevitable that we have widely divergent views on religion and politics. We cross the spectrum and while we are interconnected by blood, there are times when the differences loom large.

Music is the thing that will pull us together time and again. When we are singing and creating harmony together, our differences fade away even for a moment. We are united as we create something magical.

I want every child to have this. I want every family to be able to connect with a silly or sacred song. We change the world when we sing. We make it better. Singing is free. I do the work I do because every family can be a musical family. It's not about perfection or talent or any of that. It's about simply doing it. Singing together.

"I will sing to the Lord as long as I live..." those words from "O Lord God" ring in my ears now. They are treasured words from my college years and have continued to bring me comfort and joy since then. Like my Aunt, my Dad, and so many members of my family, I will continue to sing as long as I live. I will continue to create opportunities for others to find their voice and sing. I will sing with babies. I will sing with grandfriends. I will sing in joy and in sorrow.

I will sing because it is what we do.

Rest in peace good and faithful servant.

Yesterday the world lost one of it's brightest lights. Not completely unexpected. When someone is 94 and has lived a full life, there is also a sense of celebration and thankfulness. Still, the news that Weston Noble passed away fills so many of us with sorrow.
Weston Noble. Director, mentor, teacher, guide, friend, guru, angel. The words to describe this great man go on and on. I've been reading the FB posts of so many friends and classmates who have been touched by his gentle soul. They have refreshed me. They have made me smile, laugh and cry. Sometimes all at the same time. The stories encompass musical moments, quiet conversations, teaching moments, and jokes. Mr. Noble was one of those special people who had the ability to make each of us feel as if we were the most important and loved person at that moment. Watching him conduct, was sometimes like looking at the face of God. You could not look away!
Many will talk of his skill as a conductor and teacher. The number of chorale conductors and music teachers, both professional and volunteer, that he has inspired and nurtured is truly mind boggling.
His faith in and love for God will also be mentioned. He spoke honestly and openly about his faith and his doubts - modeling for many of us how to do the same in an authentic way.
Many stories have recounted an individuals first interaction with Mr. Noble. A phone call as a prospective student. A personal postcard in the mail from THE Weston Noble. Singing for him as a H.S. student in a festival. The list goes on and on. No matter who you were he made you feel so special! As someone who was often mistaken for my sisters, the fact that he knew ME and cherished ME as one of his own was such powerful reinforcement of my worth as an individual.
I don't remember the first time I met him. He has always been in my life. My parents spoke of him often and we were introduced to the world of music at Luther College early on. I was not going to go to Luther. I wanted to strike out on my own rather than following in my sister's footsteps. In the end I only applied to Luther. I'm certain that my postcard from Weston and the desire to sing with him in Nordic outweighed any wish I had to find my own way.
Singing in Nordic Choir was like no other experience I had ever had or ever will have since. Every afternoon, 5 days a week, for 3 years, I would go with my peers to sing. But it wasn't just singing! Those hours were filled with prayer and meditation, laughter and joy. While we were perfecting notes, rhythms and dynamics, we were praising God and sending love into the world. I sporadically attending church through college, mostly because every afternoon I felt closer to God than I ever had. I was in "church" everyday!
We were introduced to Mountain Top experiences - those musical moments when you felt as if you were going to burst! The concerts (and even rehearsals) where so many of us cried as we sang were many. The emotion that Weston drew from us was as powerful as the music.
For many years after I graduated I was afraid to sing in another chorale - I was certain it would never be the same and it was as if those days were over. The days of Nordic were over, but the desire to sing again and create musical magic with others was strong. While the experiences of Nordic were so special and unique, singing again with others continues to bring me such joy! When we sing a piece I learned in my college years, the memories are sweet and every note is locked away in my memory ready to be shared again.
So much of what I learned about music, I learned from Weston, but more than that, I learned about love, faith, humility and kindness. I learned about quietly caring for the earth and it's people. This giant in the chorale world was also a humble servant. From picking up trash around campus, to quietly listening to and advising student after student about music, life, love, God, and on and on. The greatest lesson I learned from this man was two-fold - I was both the most important AND the least important person in the world. I was loved and cherished as an individual among a crowd of individuals who were equally loved and cherished - ALL of them regardless of color, gender, orientation, religion.
Thank you dear man and may your journey continue to be filled with joy as you lead the heavenly choirs of angels. May we do our best to take the lessons we've learned from you to bring joy, love, kindness, humility and music to the world.

Saying goodbye

This morning I said goodbye to my husband and child as they headed out the door. To a funeral. For a 17 year old student and friend.  I'm not going with them for many reasons. Lots of things to do today. I need to pick up our son later. I didn't know the student myself. I can't bear the idea of witnessing the pain of her family.

For a long time I have felt that loss is so very personal. If I don't know the person who is lost or at least know their family I feel like witnessing their pain would be an intrusion on the most personal, painful experience ever.
I feel like I should be with my people to hold their hands, but I couldn't bear it.

We say goodbye all the time. Every day we say goodbye to our partners, our children, our friends, our colleagues, our clients and on and on. We say goodbye with the expectation that we will see that person again. Later that day, week, month, year, etc... We forget that sometimes goodbye is forever.

Sometimes we know when a goodbye might be the last one. Each time we have the opportunity to see my husband's Grandmother we know it might be the last time. She is 99 and while there is no reason to believe she will pass anytime soon, she's 99!

We know that after losing my Father-in-law unexpectedly that our parents are mortal and while we are lucky to still have 5 of 6 parents healthy and in our lives, we could lose any one of them at anytime. When we say goodbye we know it could be the last one.

When you say goodbye to your child as they head out the door to school most of us don't allow the idea that we won't see them again to cross our minds. For that to happen, it would have to involved a horrible accident or disaster. Opening that thought process is just a recipe for over-protection and paranoia.

Goodbye is something we just toss out to them, maybe occasionally adding an "l love you!". We are confident that they will get off the bus after school and we will see them again.

As children get older, start driving, heading off to college or living away from home, goodbye is a little more intense, a little more poignant. We know that we can't protect them from the world, but we trust that we've done a good job and they will make good decisions and use common sense. We are aware though that horrible things happen. We infuse those goodbyes with a little extra power and love and a prayer for their safe return.

Parents of children who are black, muslim, gay, even female, have the significantly higher fear that their child will be targeted, harassed, assaulted, killed.  As the mother of white children, one boy and two girls, I have had many fears for my son. I have never had to fear that he would be pulled over by police because of the color of his skin. I cannot even begin to fathom what that fear might look like or feel. I have felt the pain of listening to him recount stories of being bullied in school and only wish I had known, but I never really feared I wouldn't see him again.

As the mother of daughters I have feared for their safety. I have feared for their hearts as I've seen them deal with "mean girls," cliques, bullies etc. I have also intentionally raised them to advocate for themselves and others and they, along with their brother, are growing into young people who have a strong sense of right and wrong. A strong sense of social justice. A powerful need to stand up for those who are being oppressed. I still fear for my daughter's physical safety in the way I fear for my own safety as a woman, and have taught them to be watchful and protective of themselves and their friends. I also fear for the safety of their rights as women to have agency over their own bodies. To make decisions about reproduction without the interference of the far right.

When I say goodbye to them, all sorts of horrible scenarios could run through my mind, but I can't let them. I have to trust that the worlds they live in are by and large good ones. They are smart, caring, powerful people who will do their best to care for themselves and others. I have to trust that I will see them again.

Today a community of people will say goodbye to a lovely young woman. 17. Struck down swiftly and unexpectedly by a horrible illness. This goodbye is so final. So wrong. Her father has already had so many losses - a wife and unborn child, another son, and now a daughter. Too much loss for one person to bear, yet he does.

We can never take for granted the goodbyes in our life. Each one could be the last and what that means is each one should be said with love and an understanding that life is fragile. This last Thanksgiving my in-laws left early Sunday morning from their hotel having said goodbye the night before. As they got on the road, my Father-in-law asked if they needed to stop by the house to say goodbye so that our daughter wouldn't be upset. She understands how important those goodbyes are. At 17 she has said a final goodbye to more loved ones than I had at age 30.

Whether he would admit it or not, Grandfather's acknowledgement of the importance of her goodbye was an understanding that he too knows that each goodbye is sacred and not to be dismissed.