Nothing Much to Say, Other Than Gratitude…
07/04/09 08:05
The dream that woke me up at 5:30 this morning had something to do with me attending the DNC National Convention, which probably meant something symbolic. I got a good chuckle upon waking up and realizing that (in my dream) the Convention was being held in Vancouver, British Columbia, which was probably symbolic of something, too.
After my sickly old cat jumped violently onto the bed for the second time, I decided his desire to exit the house was Important to his personal happiness, so at 6:30 I got up and let him out, and went out myself for an early walk.
I greeted a wondrously beautiful morning in my silly white shoes, frizzy hair and baseball cap. I’ve taken up walking to help minimize my mid-life mid-section and the potential of a looming mid-life crisis. I usually accompany these walks with an iPod loaded with my own private radio station. Yesterday was (forgive me) my Toto collection on shuffle. Today, though, as I walked as fast as my legs would carry me, I needed something different. As the sun peeked over the trees, I bathed in the subtle joy of some early Mozart piano sonatas.
When we bought our house in North Eugene, I was reluctant to live so far from the center of town. (I thought I’d lose some of my piano students from the south end of town. I was correct.) What I didn’t realize was that only a few blocks from my home, the houses all but stop, yielding to the open fields of private farms and a glorious hodge-podge of trees lining the roads.
As the sun found me, I reached the pond I usually stop at to begin the trek home. Some mornings I see a huge heron on the edge of the pond, posed as a statue looking for breakfast. Other mornings I’m greeted by a family of ducks out for a morning swim. Today it was a pair of raccoons, finishing up the night’s foraging. One washed his hands fastidiously as the other watched me carefully. Soon, they both ambled into the brush. Mozart was laughing in my ears.
Pastoral, isn’t it?
As I walked home, I remembered the date today. July 4th. The day we Americans celebrate the beginning of our democracy by burning meat on barbecues and blowing things up in the night sky. (That sounded more cynical than I really feel. It just seemed funny as I gloried in the Creation that surrounded me.) And I realized that I am indeed grateful for what I have here in my little corner of America.
I can go on long walks with no fear of assault or robbery. I’m prosperous enough to own silly white shoes and an iPod, much less a small home so near the country. I’m free to make fun of political parties, whether in-or-out-of-power. (I don’t belong to any political party myself, which is, in itself, a wonderful freedom.) And, of course, I’m free to vote for those parties as my conscience leads me.
I’m free to worship the God who saved me from myself; the God who adopted me as His own son and gave me true freedom through Christ’s sacrifice. And I’m free to type that last sentence and post it in a blog without fear of torture or imprisonment (at least for now).
Naw. America’s not perfect, by any stretch. But I’m grateful for what God has given me through her. I’m grateful for my kids who are now waking up and returning me to the responsibilities of fatherhood and all that. And I’m grateful for the burned meat I’ll eat later today and the cheap fireworks we’ll set off in the street to remind us of our freedom.
Gonna be a good day…
n
The Empty Hands of Faith...
02/16/09 10:45
Sunday, Feb 15, 2009...
So I'm trying to prepare a worship service at my church. It's my job. I get payed to do this. I clock in on Sundays and various other days for meetings and services and rehearsals and I get the job done. Right?
Well, my mother is still in the hospital 4 days after she was supposed to be released. I've canceled rehearsals so I can catch my breath and pay one more visit to the hospital. I've skipped staff meetings. I've contacted the band members by e-mail and sent them digital versions of the music so they can practice at home.
I've already had one emotional meltdown earlier in the week, and I can feel another one brewing. I'm running just to stand still. I arrive at the church Sunday morning late. We get soundcheck going, but my stage monitor (a speaker that allows me to hear myself and the rest of the band) has an electronic short so the sound is cutting in and out. My kicking it doesn't seem to fix the problem for some odd reason. My good friend is sitting in on bass since our regular bassist has injured his hand, and hasn't had a chance to learn the music, so he's finding his way (stumbling) through the charts and I'm starting to wig out. "I'm going to look like an idiot" is the non-verbal (and arrogant) phrase cycling through my tired brain.
Time's up. The chairs are filling. I really haven't touched a piano (other than to demonstrate small things to my students) for two weeks. I haven't even prayed. I am totally and completely on empty. There's nothing for me to give.
God, it's up to you. I got nothing. Can you make this work? I sure hope so cuz I give up.
Looking back, the service was a bit of a blur that morning. Our bassist nailed his parts in the service, as did the rest of the band. The songs flowed well. The sermon nailed me to the wall and almost brought me to tears. (Richard spoke of our worth and our righteousness coming from God and not from ourselves.)
We closed the service with two songs: Before the Throne of God Above (by Vikki Cook) and Worthy is the Lamb (by Darlene Zschech). Something broke through. I wasn't trying to perform anymore. I was just playing and giving what little I had to God instead of the people in the seats. I didn't care if I sucked anymore. I finally got out of the way...
And there in front of me was a little girl. Probably not much more than a year old. And she was dancing. Spinning and bouncing. And her eyes locked with mine and she wouldn't look away. It was like she was calling me to dance with her. She got blurry as my eyes filled with tears. It was all I could do to keep singing. And she just kept dancing.
Oh to dance like that before my God. Unaware of myself. Unaware of performing for others' approval. To approach the Throne with the empty hands of faith. With hands no longer trying to carry the burden I was never asked to carry. With feet that dance with the gratitude of the adopted child.
May my hands ever be empty before the Throne...
Soli Deo Gloria
n
[Link to Richard's Message from Sunday...]
So I'm trying to prepare a worship service at my church. It's my job. I get payed to do this. I clock in on Sundays and various other days for meetings and services and rehearsals and I get the job done. Right?
Well, my mother is still in the hospital 4 days after she was supposed to be released. I've canceled rehearsals so I can catch my breath and pay one more visit to the hospital. I've skipped staff meetings. I've contacted the band members by e-mail and sent them digital versions of the music so they can practice at home.
I've already had one emotional meltdown earlier in the week, and I can feel another one brewing. I'm running just to stand still. I arrive at the church Sunday morning late. We get soundcheck going, but my stage monitor (a speaker that allows me to hear myself and the rest of the band) has an electronic short so the sound is cutting in and out. My kicking it doesn't seem to fix the problem for some odd reason. My good friend is sitting in on bass since our regular bassist has injured his hand, and hasn't had a chance to learn the music, so he's finding his way (stumbling) through the charts and I'm starting to wig out. "I'm going to look like an idiot" is the non-verbal (and arrogant) phrase cycling through my tired brain.
Time's up. The chairs are filling. I really haven't touched a piano (other than to demonstrate small things to my students) for two weeks. I haven't even prayed. I am totally and completely on empty. There's nothing for me to give.
God, it's up to you. I got nothing. Can you make this work? I sure hope so cuz I give up.
Looking back, the service was a bit of a blur that morning. Our bassist nailed his parts in the service, as did the rest of the band. The songs flowed well. The sermon nailed me to the wall and almost brought me to tears. (Richard spoke of our worth and our righteousness coming from God and not from ourselves.)
We closed the service with two songs: Before the Throne of God Above (by Vikki Cook) and Worthy is the Lamb (by Darlene Zschech). Something broke through. I wasn't trying to perform anymore. I was just playing and giving what little I had to God instead of the people in the seats. I didn't care if I sucked anymore. I finally got out of the way...
And there in front of me was a little girl. Probably not much more than a year old. And she was dancing. Spinning and bouncing. And her eyes locked with mine and she wouldn't look away. It was like she was calling me to dance with her. She got blurry as my eyes filled with tears. It was all I could do to keep singing. And she just kept dancing.
Oh to dance like that before my God. Unaware of myself. Unaware of performing for others' approval. To approach the Throne with the empty hands of faith. With hands no longer trying to carry the burden I was never asked to carry. With feet that dance with the gratitude of the adopted child.
May my hands ever be empty before the Throne...
Soli Deo Gloria
n
[Link to Richard's Message from Sunday...]
Stages of the Journey
02/07/09 09:00
Sitting in the ICU waiting room, I could hear the
intercom occasionally chime and then play a
couple bars of Brahms’ Lullaby. After the fifth
time, I turned and look quizzically at the young
lady next to me. “Oh, they do that every time a
baby is born in the hospital.” Well, it had been
a busy day in the birthing wing. After that, I
smiled every time I heard the music.
The image of new, innocent life beginning in this building was a welcome contrast to what the people in this room were experiencing. We were all holding on to any shred of news that our loved ones were OK, that their surgeries had gone well, that the beloved elderly people down the hall would live to see another day (or year, or decade).
My mom had just come out of quadruple bypass surgery and was now recovering in this Intensive Care Unit. All had gone well, and I actually had little need to fear. Yet the very definition of life had become somewhat blurry this morning. In her surgery, her heart was stopped. Purposely. The very thing that has declared her to be alive for so long, her beating heart, was stopped. In exchange, a machine pumped her blood for several hours. Another machine provided her body and blood with much needed oxygen. In a way, she became part machine. OK, that’s weird…
The word finally came that we could go into ICU to see her. I recalled all the warnings about how she would look. A tube in her throat. Tubes in her neck. Tubes in her chest. Pale. Swollen. I figured I was prepared.
I wasn’t. She looked so dead, except for the fact that she was shivering quite a bit. This was apparently because of her meds. I found I couldn’t come any closer to her. I had to look away.
Brahms’ Lullaby played like a dirge in my mind as I looked at the woman who gave birth to me in the old location of this same hospital 36 years ago. My mind (and the nurse) told me how well she was doing, yet my emotions roared in my ears: “Something’s different…”
I held her hand and spoke to her, telling her how well she was doing. Her mouth would turn up slightly around the respirator tube, letting me know she could hear me through the cloud of drugs she was wandering through. Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see my wet eyes.
It had happened. I was more the parent now. Encouraging, calling out for more hard work, holding her hand to calm her fears, making sure she was being taken care of by the staff. Tomorrow would be more comfortable, more familiar, but for now the roles had finally, permanently changed in a way I couldn’t ignore. The next stage of this journey, the journey just begun by those precious infants in the birthing wing, had started for me.
Soli Deo Gloria
n
The image of new, innocent life beginning in this building was a welcome contrast to what the people in this room were experiencing. We were all holding on to any shred of news that our loved ones were OK, that their surgeries had gone well, that the beloved elderly people down the hall would live to see another day (or year, or decade).
My mom had just come out of quadruple bypass surgery and was now recovering in this Intensive Care Unit. All had gone well, and I actually had little need to fear. Yet the very definition of life had become somewhat blurry this morning. In her surgery, her heart was stopped. Purposely. The very thing that has declared her to be alive for so long, her beating heart, was stopped. In exchange, a machine pumped her blood for several hours. Another machine provided her body and blood with much needed oxygen. In a way, she became part machine. OK, that’s weird…
The word finally came that we could go into ICU to see her. I recalled all the warnings about how she would look. A tube in her throat. Tubes in her neck. Tubes in her chest. Pale. Swollen. I figured I was prepared.
I wasn’t. She looked so dead, except for the fact that she was shivering quite a bit. This was apparently because of her meds. I found I couldn’t come any closer to her. I had to look away.
Brahms’ Lullaby played like a dirge in my mind as I looked at the woman who gave birth to me in the old location of this same hospital 36 years ago. My mind (and the nurse) told me how well she was doing, yet my emotions roared in my ears: “Something’s different…”
I held her hand and spoke to her, telling her how well she was doing. Her mouth would turn up slightly around the respirator tube, letting me know she could hear me through the cloud of drugs she was wandering through. Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see my wet eyes.
It had happened. I was more the parent now. Encouraging, calling out for more hard work, holding her hand to calm her fears, making sure she was being taken care of by the staff. Tomorrow would be more comfortable, more familiar, but for now the roles had finally, permanently changed in a way I couldn’t ignore. The next stage of this journey, the journey just begun by those precious infants in the birthing wing, had started for me.
Soli Deo Gloria
n
The Science of Life
02/06/09 08:00
The swishing sound of the machine fascinates me.
I’m hearing the synthesized sound of blood
flowing through one of my mother’s arteries. On
the screen is a flash of fiery orange and red
against a cold backdrop of black and grey. The
technician is manipulating some lines and
crosshairs as he holds a cold plastic wand
against Mom’s neck. Like a virtuoso musician he
resets the crosshairs with casual precision, then
listens to the new swish of blood as it travels
through her body. Over and over the process
repeats.
My mother is preparing for quadruple bypass surgery tomorrow. A routine exam last week revealed a ticking bomb in her chest. Ever-so-quietly, the arteries providing her heart with life had ceased to do their job. It was a matter of time before her heart ceased to do its own life-giving work. This ultrasound technician was now checking her other arteries for problems, and for potential spare veins that could replace the killers wrapped around her heart.
What is this marriage of science and life, this embrace of technology and biology? I’m used to causing my hands to run fluidly over the keys of a piano to create sounds that lift (or perhaps disturb) people’s spirits. This technician was doing the same with this hands and intricate lab equipment to look at signs of life hidden inside my mother’s body. Although it was like seeing an artist at work, it seemed cold, calculated, measured. Yet it would prolong my mother’s life, creating more opportunities for warmth, spontaneity, and love.
X-rays were taken. Blood was drawn. Plans were drawn up. One by one, we realized an entire team of scientific artists had been gathered together to give a new chapter of life to my mother. Kind, compassionate people who would use the cold plastic and steel of computer and scalpel to breathe life into a tired heart. I am sitting here amazed and humbled that we are on the receiving end of this care.
Sometimes God heals through miracles of the supernatural. Sometimes he chooses to heal though the miracles of cold, hard science. I am grateful for both.
n
My mother is preparing for quadruple bypass surgery tomorrow. A routine exam last week revealed a ticking bomb in her chest. Ever-so-quietly, the arteries providing her heart with life had ceased to do their job. It was a matter of time before her heart ceased to do its own life-giving work. This ultrasound technician was now checking her other arteries for problems, and for potential spare veins that could replace the killers wrapped around her heart.
What is this marriage of science and life, this embrace of technology and biology? I’m used to causing my hands to run fluidly over the keys of a piano to create sounds that lift (or perhaps disturb) people’s spirits. This technician was doing the same with this hands and intricate lab equipment to look at signs of life hidden inside my mother’s body. Although it was like seeing an artist at work, it seemed cold, calculated, measured. Yet it would prolong my mother’s life, creating more opportunities for warmth, spontaneity, and love.
X-rays were taken. Blood was drawn. Plans were drawn up. One by one, we realized an entire team of scientific artists had been gathered together to give a new chapter of life to my mother. Kind, compassionate people who would use the cold plastic and steel of computer and scalpel to breathe life into a tired heart. I am sitting here amazed and humbled that we are on the receiving end of this care.
Sometimes God heals through miracles of the supernatural. Sometimes he chooses to heal though the miracles of cold, hard science. I am grateful for both.
n
Dancing...
01/26/09 11:57
My wife, Cathy, and I just played a wedding
reception in Salem this last Saturday night. The
groom was my choir director from high school, so
this was indeed and honor for me to participate
in his life this way. He had a great impact on me
in my formative high school years, and I really
looked up to him.
He asked us to play a couple hours of jazz for the reception. This made me a little nervous (I like to tell my friends I know enough about jazz to be dangerous.) So we worked up about three hour of tunes, which we ended up using after all (the party went longer than expected). We had a blast, and you just can't get much better music than some of these old standards by Davis, Porter, Ellington, and the rest.
What made the evening over the top was when a middle-aged couple started dancing to what we were playing. Not just dancing, but real ballroom stuff, moving around the room, between the tables and everything. We chatted with them between songs and had a nice time with them. I don't think I'll ever forget playing Moon River and having them do he European Waltz all OVER the room, dodging tables effortlessly, spinning and swinging between other guests without even touching them. Amazing.
I've had intoxicated people dance to cover tunes when I've played with other bands, but this was different. I realized I want people to celebrate in the music I create, whether I wrote it or not. Not just getting up and moving at the moving of the "spirits" (if you get my drift), but instead dancing with relationship and meaning. There was real joy in the room that night, and I had a part in creating it. I realized this was part of why I want to do music.
Gotta go practice...
n
He asked us to play a couple hours of jazz for the reception. This made me a little nervous (I like to tell my friends I know enough about jazz to be dangerous.) So we worked up about three hour of tunes, which we ended up using after all (the party went longer than expected). We had a blast, and you just can't get much better music than some of these old standards by Davis, Porter, Ellington, and the rest.
What made the evening over the top was when a middle-aged couple started dancing to what we were playing. Not just dancing, but real ballroom stuff, moving around the room, between the tables and everything. We chatted with them between songs and had a nice time with them. I don't think I'll ever forget playing Moon River and having them do he European Waltz all OVER the room, dodging tables effortlessly, spinning and swinging between other guests without even touching them. Amazing.
I've had intoxicated people dance to cover tunes when I've played with other bands, but this was different. I realized I want people to celebrate in the music I create, whether I wrote it or not. Not just getting up and moving at the moving of the "spirits" (if you get my drift), but instead dancing with relationship and meaning. There was real joy in the room that night, and I had a part in creating it. I realized this was part of why I want to do music.
Gotta go practice...
n