To Give a Gift

On April 7^th and 8^th, our Cambridge Stake (the group of 12 congregations we belong to) is presenting Lamb of God by Rob Gardner. It’s a moving oratorio about Jesus Christ’s life, sacrifice, and resurrection.

I have the privilege of singing in the choir, conducted by Nicolas Giusti, a world-class musician from Rome, Italy, who now lives in Boston. He is great leader: he inspires the best in us. From the initial rehearsal, he focused on expression, not just hitting notes and beating out rhythm. Musical dynamics now has a new, deeper meaning. Before, dynamics had simply meant the volume of the music: soft or loud or some gradation. But, the origin of the word is Greek, dunamis, power, which derives from dunasthai: to be able. I’ve never thought of this, but that technical term, ‘dynamics’, expresses exactly what Nicolas is drawing out of us: the life, the movement, the soul of the music.

On Sunday evening, the choir rehearsed for the first time with the vocal soloists and narrators. I was overcome: I couldn't control my emotions while hearing and singing such powerful music.

At the end of the rehearsal, I caught up with one of the soloists. I choked up as I told her how close to the surface my emotions were. We sat on the couch in the foyer and she shared her wisdom with me.

In singing, you are giving a gift to the audience. They will be able to accept the gift and feel in themselves the emotion and beauty of the music. But if you lose your composure, the audience gets nervous. They’re not sure what is going to happen. This detracts from the gift.

As I listened to her, drying my tears and welling up again, I nodded, still uncertain how to proceed. She suggested praying about it: praying for the strength to give the gift with composure.

I have 18 days to practice. I dearly want to perform. What she was telling me is: it’s not about me: it’s about the audience and giving them a musical and emotional gift.

I had a sweet young mother over for lunch today. As I was describing my family, I said that Sam, our youngest was nearly 27. Just Sunday I heard Jim mention David: “Our 27-year-old son, David, died of leukemia.” And in a few weeks, our youngest will be that age. And in 11 months, David's younger siblings will both be older that David will ever become in this life.

Ticking off the Days

I didn’t post last week. I avoided writing until Tuesday afternoon and then was completely uninspired.

Yesterday, I realized why: I’m approaching the fourth anniversary of March 19, 2014, the day my life changed forever, March 19, 2014. The day David phoned me from the hospital in Seoul, Korea, and told me he had leukemia. Seventeen months later he was dead.

I hadn’t consciously thought of the date, but something inside me has been ticking off the days.

I’ve fallen back into the trap of expecting the grief to ‘be over’. Although I say to close friends, ‘you never get over this’, I’ve yet to completely accept that. Or I fear I’ll turn into a whiner. But that’s not the underlying danger: forgetting is. Deliberate forgetting to avoid the pain of remembering and the natural forgetting as memories fade over time.

I don’t have clear, extensive memories of what our children were really like as they grew up, just brief vignettes and memorable incidents. I regret not keeping a ‘mother’s journal’.

My friend, Susanne and I took our weekly walk yesterday, on the bike path. Today there’s about a foot of snow on the ground and it’s still falling. I’ve been inside the house, watching the snow fall and hoping no more large limbs fall from our moribund trees. We have wonderful tall maples and evergreens on our acre lot, but many of them aren’t healthy. Last week, during a heavy snowfall, a major maple tree limb fell into our circular driveway, missing Jim’s car by inches. Before we’ve had a chance to hire someone to remove it, we’re in the middle of another nor-easter. Last night I spent a half an hour dragging the moderate-sized limbs to our big compost heap so our snowplow driver can clear most of the driveway.