Patriots' Day 2018

Yesterday, the third Monday in April, Massachusetts and Maine celebrated Patriots' Day. The Lexington Minutemen held their annual reenactment of the Battle of Lexington.

As has been our tradition since 2003, Jim and I invited people to park on our property. Our yard is the perfect place to park and walk to the Battle Green, where colonists gathered and awaited the arrival of the red-coated army early in the morning of April 19, 1775. Our Sunday night was very cold and full of sleet. By 4:00 a.m. it had changed to heavy rain and, as expected, we had a small  turnout: 30 cars. (We have the capacity to park 65.) 

At 3:30 a.m. I was in the kitchen, making 2 gallons of hot cocoa and preparing for our breakfast guests. The reenactment takes place at 5:30 a.m., as did the actual battle. However,as a concession to the modern American custom, we now celebrate Patriots’ Day as a Monday holiday.

Despite the rain, about 100 people came for breakfast. They carefully wiped their shoes, so the floors hardly got wet at all.

I’ve been thinking of our history with David. By Patriots’ Day in 2014, David had been at Walter Reed Military Medical Center for 27 days. He didn't tell us not to go, so we returned home for Patriots' Day. Jim posted a picture in the living room of David, smiling and sitting up in his hospital bed.

By 2015, David was living at home and very sick. The stem cell transplant had failed over 10 months before. We went ahead with the breakfast. In 2016, we had the first Patriots’ Day without him. Matt ran the Boston Marathon later that day, raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Since 1897, the Boston Marathon has been held on Patriots' Day. (The first modern marathon was run in Greece just the year before.) Last year, R'el ran for LLS.

It's a relief to have the Patriots’ Day breakfast over. I enjoyed it, but the preparation and execution takes a lot of time and energy. It’s pleasant to be one of the ‘old-timers’, sharing a bit of town and national history with people who are interested enough to arrive at our yard between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m. It’s also pleasant to take a nap in the afternoon and then savor a full night’s sleep.

The Gift

The Cambridge Stake choir and orchestra presented their audiences with a gift this past weekend: Rob Gardner's oratorio: Lamb of God. With practice, prayer, and the wisdom I wrote about on March 20th, I sang in the choir with just a few tears. When emotion would start to well up, I’d stare at the back wall, focus on supporting my sound, and concentrate on the gift.

The copyright arrangement included permission to stream the performances live on Facebook and leave the video up until 11:59 p.m. on Monday night.

Monday morning, I spent an embarrassingly long time identifying the timestamps of my appearances for my family. My silver hair and face were occasionally on camera, hovering behind the pewter-grey post of a floor lamp.

Early in the evening, I listened to the entire piece with Jim, then spent the rest of the evening working on my computer while listening to my favorite parts for hours on end, knowing that the next day the video would be gone. As I listened, I let the beauty of the music and message wash over me and my pent-up emotion flow out in tears. It was my turn to be moved and gratefully accept the gift.

One of the disadvantages of performing is that you don’t get to hear the production. At my skill level, I'm absorbed with technique: counting, coming in at the right time, singing the right notes and words, attending to dynamics and phrasing. What a luxury to spend the evening opening the gift, over and over again.

Oratorio Next Weekend!

April 7 & 8, 2018, I will be singing in the choir of Lamb of God, an oratorio by Rob Gardner. I blogged about it two weeks ago.

If you can't make it to 65 Binney St. in Cambridge, Massachusetts (near MIT and the Red Line Kendall Square stop), watch it live here:

http://bit.ly/LambofGodCambridge

Easter Sunday 2018

I remember our first Easter after David had died. A sweet friend of mine remarked that the day must be especially wonderful and meaningful for me. She meant that the Easter message of hope and resurrection must be resonating deeply in me.

I was not feeling joyful; I was missing David painfully and feeling the loss to him of all the experiences mortality has to offer a young man in his late twenties. I smiled and thanked her: I would never want her to know she added to my misery. I didn’t have the self-possession to talk about my deep feelings.

This year is different. I still miss David and mourn the loss of him and to him. Random experiences bring tears to my eyes and emptiness to my heart. But they are fewer, further between, and shorter in duration. I sang “Christ, the Lord, Is Risen Today” with our ward choir with no pang of sorrow, no uncontrollable tears.

Last night, at bedtime, Jim really wanted to watch a movie. We are on a Fred Astaire kick (sorry, couldn’t resist. No, I could have, but I didn’t.) For Christmas, Jim gave me Fred Astaire’s autobiography, along with a book about his early career with his sister, Adele, and an over-sized, comprehensive book about each of his many films, with hundreds of screen shots from the dances. We’ve been working our way through the Astaire/Rogers movies (all of which we own), while dipping into this comprehensive tome.

Spoiler Alert!

Next in the chronological queue was The Vernon and Irene Castle Story. I remember vividly the first time we watched it, sometime after David died. As the final credits rolled we sat silently, stunned and frozen. We had trusted Fred Astaire to deliver a light-hearted confection. But suddenly, Vernon Castle is killed during a routine military plane exercise, hours before a long-anticipated reunion with his wife. I looked him up today: he was 31. David was 27.

We didn’t finish the movie last night, not out of sorrow but sleepiness. I probably will cry at the end: I usually do. But it won’t be devastating; I won’t feel abandoned by Fred Astaire.

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.

Unfinished Business

Two weeks ago, Jim’s mom and I spent the day at Temple Square in Salt Lake City. In the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, originally the luxurious Hotel Utah, (built in 1911), we saw 'The Craftsman', a film about Danny Sorensen. A little older than me, Danny has loved flying all his life, is an accomplished show pilot, and has hand-built two planes. The opening shot of the nose of Danny’s bright red plane, “Unfinished Business,” brought sudden and unexpected tears: David has sixty years of unfinished business.

And then, one of Danny's and Alynn's daughters developed a brain tumor at age four.

I admire the faith, courage, and wisdom of the Sorensens. And the aeronautical cinematography is stunning on the big screen. (I love airshows!)

In my Compassionate Friends group (a support group for parents and siblings who have lost a child or sibling to death), one mother described how her deceased son energizes her to live life more fully and do significant, hard things: "for Nick". His unfinished business has become her inspiration.

What’s your inspiration this week?