because it feels like the past, the present and the future all at once and – here – it all wraps around your heart.
we are both john denver fans. not the ridiculous push-to-the-front-of-the-crowd-for-a-signature type. just the quiet, eternally-grateful type. he has inspired us. he has inspired me. he made the simple melodic gesture a visceral thing. he elevated folksy messaging and storytelling; he reinforced the beauty of a lack of adornment. simplicity.
and when we stand in this beautiful place – designed to honor him, his composing and songwriting, his vision of the world – we are standing in and with his spirit. and you can feel it.
we slowly walkabout, arm in arm. we hum the songs chiseled into granite boulders. we stand immersed, pondering, in front of quotes of john muir and leonardo da vinci and helen keller and rachel carson and jacques cousteau.
yes. remembering dates can be both. on one hand, you can suddenly recall that something absolutely splendid happened on this very date – that it was life-altering, that it was the beginning of a new journey, a divergent path in the woods. on the other hand, you can suddenly recall that something absolutely dreadful happened on this very date – and it slams into you and holds you down for a moment or two while you catch your breath, gulping air, grasping at remembering you are no longer in that very moment on that very day.
today is one of those remembering dates.
but today is the first kind.
eleven years ago today – in baggage claim of o’hare airport – in a pair of jeans, a black sweater and some boots (an outfit pondered over for days) – i stood, holding a single daisy, waiting to finally meet this person i had been communicating with for about six months every single day.
and that moment – on that day – in that place – with that outfit on – was about to change my life.
you can’t always pinpoint those moments, exactlyyy. you know that something – some set of circumstances or events combined to change you – but you don’t always know the moment when something in-real-life enters your life and nothing will ever be the same.
it wasn’t like stars exploding or fireworks. no bells rang in my head. i didn’t faint or have palpitations. i was not weak-kneed. i wasn’t wowed or wooed or walloped. i did not whoop in overwhelming wonder.
i laughed. we hugged. and we skipped. and i felt like i had come home.
the universe had somehow – in some kismet-ish sort of way – sorted through the billions of people on this good earth – and had connected me to a person who would give me equal shares of blissful moments and infuriating moments, the person who would be my favorite person, the person who would be my favorite pain-in-the-ass, the person who would make me think and feel and cry and snort, the person who would be my rock in a never-ending river complete with gentle pools of lazy and boulder-laden whitewater rapids, the person whose kiss on the top of my head nearly breaks my heart open.
the may apples stood on risers in the forest, singing to spring, singing to any audience who might be there, singing their glorious song. just like a choir. unified. united. elated to be in harmony. creating four-part jubilation to be alive. making music.
the singtolive choir stood on risers in the sanctuary of the beautiful church, directly in front of the organ pipes. their joy was palpable and, if i closed my eyes as they sang their program of the great american songbook, i could imagine the record albums of my parents playing and the choirs of 33rpm singing into our living room. they were cohesive and gently exploring the expanse of the songs chosen for the evening. and then, at the end of the concert – this concert dedicated to breast cancer survivorship – the singers left the risers and came out to stand among us, the audience.
to say that their last song was touching would be an understatement. a trademark of this marvelous group, why we sing was exquisitely performed. we all had eye contact with singers surrounding us. you could feel hearts swelling and tears forming. they delivered this emotional piece like no other preceding it in the program. i whispered to david, “this is the stuff.”
there is a lot of choir music ‘out there’. for the decades of my career as a minister of music, i was shipped an enormous number of catalogs, of listings, of cds with samples of songs. and then, there were charts to study, trends in music. and then, arrangements and reviewing lyrics and the range of my singers – in note as well as in degree of difficulty. i reviewed all this music always seeking that which would resonate, that which would help a person’s heart and mind connect with their faith, with the questions they had in this world, with good intentions and their community. it’s not a small responsibility to choose that which a choir – any choir, any worship band, any ukulele band, any choral ensemble – will sing in public – no matter the venue.
heidi and i stood in front of thousands of people through the time we worked together, performing “celebrate sweet life” – our breast cancer survivorship programs. with audiences of 35,000 in new york’s central park to hundreds in a medical center to a few thousand in the chicago sun with lance armstrong’s tour of hope to a more intimate group in pjs at md anderson to sharing a long island stage with hillary clinton to oncology pharmaceutical sales conference in puerto rico, it was our privilege to share messages – of hope, of healing, of making a difference for each other, of being alive – with audiences all over the country.
there is a video from one of our performances that touches me each time i see it. it is a bit blurry, not captured with the best of equipment. yet, at the end, as the audience has risen to their feet, there is a man in the foreground. as heidi speaks her last words and i sing the last lyrics of one of my songs, this man wipes at his eyes, stirred. and each time – no matter how many times i have viewed this – i am profoundly moved.
the may apples – gleeful in their rising out of the eradicated forest, now clear of invasives and plants with ill intent – stand proudly. they are furled at first and one might think they are quiet, meek, hiding. but as the sun warms them they arise. they will give their performance their all, joining together as one umbrella of green. the trillium will watch in the forest as audience members. and then, pure white flowers will form under the may apple parasols. and the trillium will turn to each other and whisper.
in the moments of performances under my choir baton or concert stages under my feet, there has been nothing quite like thinking that someone out there is whispering to the person next to them, “this is the stuff.”
reverse threading 