Songs and Faces

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I love the way one single song can bring a flood of memories to my mind.  I experience this phenomenon quite often.  The memory may be an event, a feeling, a person…today it was a specific group of people.

These particular individuals happen to be talented musicians. It was my privilege, playing music with them at many a Sunday service in times past.  Circumstances have changed, taking some of us in different directions, to different places. But there was something special about the time we worked together, rehearsing hours each week preparing for Sunday services.

I’ve been playing piano in church since I was a little girl.  We won’t do the math-trust me, that’s a long time! Having taken some time away to rest and refocus, I recently began playing again.  Though the rest was much needed, the return feels like a visit with an old friend.

That brings us to today.  Currently I participate in a traditional service-piano, organ, choir, orchestra.  However, this particular service was different, a beautiful combination of modern and traditional. One of the modern songs was “Great I Am.”

I was excited to see it on the set list. Hearing it at rehearsal last week was like a breath of fresh air and an encouraging memory all wrapped into one.

”I want to be near, near to your heart.  Loving the world and hating the dark.”

This morning as we sang those words, the memories flooding my mind were faces. How I miss those faces.  Although things are not the same, those experiences stay with me wherever the journey leads.  And I continue to discover just how much moments spent with this amazing group of people made a lasting impact on my life.

The Rest of the Story

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I have already shared events surrounding the birth of our first child, Robert, in two separate blog posts-Thankful and The Struggle for Control.  You would certainly think those events provided enough excitement for one pregnancy…but that was before he actually arrived.

One month had passed since our car accident.  My cracked ribs were beginning to heal, and I was ready to meet our baby boy.  Despite reassurances from the doctors that he was fine, my worry would not completely disappear until we actually saw him.  So a date to induce labor was set.

Gart and I arrived at the hospital early on December 1, 1994.  All checked in, the process began.  Doctors, nurses, monitors, IV…contractions. He would most likely arrive sometime before midnight.  That’s what they thought-but they thought wrong. Midnight came and went.  I was in active labor, but something wasn’t right.  Of course, this was our first baby, so what did we know?!

At some point during the late night/early morning, the doctor came in and things changed quickly.  Apparently, she should have been called much earlier.  Once she arrived, the whole room transformed. Suddenly it was full of additional medical personnel-a neonatology team, nurses.  Lighting in the room was adjusted, and the mood became extremely serious.

My mom and mother-n-law had been with us through the entire labor process.  But as the room began to transform, they were asked to wait out in the hall.  So they did.

We often see childbirth portrayed as an intense experience followed by this beautiful first moment.   A pink, crying baby is handed to the new mom.  She’s crying and the strong, supportive dad is leaning over-everyone is smiling and eternally happy.  Photos capture the moment, assuring it will never be forgotten.

When Robert was finally born, I can remember waiting…waiting to hear him cry.   Doctors and nurses were busy doing their jobs and there was nothing we could do but wait.  There was a flurry of activity and none of it sounded good. It felt like an eternity.  Then finally, a cry.  The sweetest, tiniest little cry.

A nurse brought him over so we could see him-not hold him-only for a few seconds.  He was pale, almost translucent, but that sweet face.  I can close my eyes right now and still see that face.  There are no pictures from that moment. Time and the seriousness of the situation did not allow for pictures.  Just as quickly as we’d seen him, he was whisked out of the room.  Gart followed.

Our moms, still waiting in the hall,  did not know what was happening. They’d witnessed the influx of medical personnel and their quick exit with the baby, Gart following close behind.  He was stopped at the nursery.  The blinds were closed.  Now he had no idea what was happening with our sweet boy.

Returning to the delivery room to check on me, he was once again stopped at the door.  I had suffered third-degree trauma, and the doctor was with me.  Poor Gart, it’s a miracle we ended up having two more children.

Finally, I was in a room.  Family there.  Waiting to see Robert.  Four hours later, we held him for the first time.  An IV had been placed in the top of his little head.  He had lost a lot of fluid during the trauma of his birth but was going to be ok.  Once again, we were thankful.

There were birthday gifts and cake later that day in the hospital room.  Because not only was December 2, 1994, the birthdate of our son, Robert, it was also my twenty-seventh birthday.  A birthday I will never forget!

I think I can safely say that is the rest of the story.  At least for today!

 

Warning: Frazzled Teacher Ahead

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All day today I felt like I should have been wearing a caution tape sash or carrying a big red sign.  Oh, you know, something like- “Warning!  Frazzled teacher! Approach at your own risk!”  Yes, I can laugh now but if I’m completely honest, there were moments I almost cried.

Car duty.  I usually enjoy morning car duty.  Greeting the kids as they arrive at school, lots of hugs and high-fives.  Most of the time, it starts the day on a positive note. Except on days like this…pouring down rain, holding an umbrella, trying to open car doors.  And today I decided to wear a skirt.

Needless to say, I was feeling frazzled as I tried to wring out the bottom of my skirt in the bathroom sink.  Taking the focus off my skirt, I looked in the bathroom mirror.  I’m not sure my hair has ever looked that frizzy.  My first thought-I have a music teacher meeting after school.  It would surely look lovely by then!  I wasn’t sure I would survive the day.

Despite my wet clothes and frizzy hair, the students were coming. Ready or not.  A cup of coffee did provide a little perk.  Then the music started playing, I started moving, and the kids followed in line.  Whole notes, half notes, quarter notes, eighth notes-stepping in rhythm, learning patterns, playing instruments.  And that was just the morning!

Afternoon classes were met with high-fives from our new friend Freddie the Frog.  Songs, stories, dancing, coloring, laughing…maybe a little impatient by the last hour, but I had indeed survived.

Although there was that one little friend who decided to say “we aren’t going to miss you” and “please cry” instead of “we are going to miss you” and “please don’t cry” as we sang our “Goodbye Freddie” song.  Maybe he was feeling a little frazzled today too.

Yes, I am tired.  No, I will not be wearing a skirt to school tomorrow. The music will play again, I will move, and the kids will follow. Freddie the Frog will most surely make another appearance.  And all will be ok because…

TOMORROW IS FRIDAY!

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Instant Friends

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Have you ever experienced an instantaneous friendship?  You meet someone for the first time, yet it seems as if you’ve always known them?  That’s exactly what happened when I met Shannon.  Both of our husbands had new jobs which brought us to Liberal, KS.  She was the wife of a pastor and me the wife of a high school assistant principal.  We both had young children and were navigating a new place, far away from old friends and family.

If you’ve never been to Liberal, well…there is an actual edge of town. You can see nothing but fields for miles and miles in all directions. The town had a Walmart, a few restaurants, and a small shopping center.  We would drive an hour and a half to Garden City, KS just to eat at Applebees.  Needless to say, it was quite an adjustment for both families.

Our move to Liberal was the second big move we’d made in nine years of marriage.  Memories from previous moves brought images of tear-filled goodbyes with many dear friends.  Some of those goodbyes turned into lifelong friendships, but in that actual moment of leaving it felt like our world was falling apart.  As for me, the tears often continued as I adjusted and searched to figure out my place in a new location.  Looking back now I understand that those lonely times strengthened our marriage and brought our family closer together, but oh were they hard.

Soon after we settled in our new home, I heard an advertisement on the radio for a MOPs (Moms of Preschoolers) group meeting.  I’d never been to one of these before but was excited at the prospect of meeting other moms with small children.  There was also a weekly storytime at the library.  My two oldest would be starting school soon, so that would give Ryan (my youngest) and I a fun outing.

It’s funny looking back now, I can’t remember if I first met Shannon at the library or MOPs.  I definitely noticed her at both events with her young kids.  She had such a welcoming smile, maybe we would become friends!  We introduced ourselves, and it wasn’t long before we had traded phone numbers.  At least now there would be a familiar face at storytime and our MOPs meetings.

Not long after school started, Shannon asked if I’d like to go for a walk after we dropped our older kids off at school.  Our youngest kids were the same age, and still enjoyed short stroller rides.  That first walk remains etched in my memory.  We chatted about our families, what had brought us to Liberal, our future plans.  And then Shannon shared the most amazing thing.  From the time they knew they would be moving, she had been praying that God would send her a friend.  I will never forget her words, “I think you just might be the answer to my prayers.”

From that point on, we were inseparable.  Playdates, family dinners, babysitting for eachother…things all young moms desperately need. I’m not sure how I would have survived that year without her.  It felt like we had known each other our entire lives.  She would even laugh and say she must have named her daughter Kelli after me before she even knew me.  And to make the year even more exciting, she soon discovered they were expecting their third child!  So much to plan and celebrate!

Telling Shannon that we would be moving back to Oklahoma for the following school year was not easy.  I dreaded making that phone call.  We were in Oklahoma for the interview and she was in Kansas, having just given birth to their sweet baby.  Terrible timing, but I knew it couldn’t wait.  Always gracious, she understood.  Moving would eventually be part of their future as well.  There were tears and promises to keep in touch.  Despite having experienced this kind of goodbye with friends before-it was not any easier.

Although Shannon and I had become close friends in such a short time, I had no idea the lasting impact she would have on my life. After our move, there were regular phone calls in those first months and even a visit despite the distance between us.  But our communications quickly took a different tone as Shannon was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer.

How could this be possible?  A young mom of three, healthy, no family history…the wife of a pastor.  She fought so hard.  Surgery, treatments, more surgery…and so many prayers.  I witnessed the outpouring of support from their family and friends past and present.  There were also a few misguided individuals who thought if her faith was just strong enough, she would be healed.  Most certainly they did not truly know Shannon.

If ever there was a time in life where I questioned my own faith, this was it.

I had the privilege of spending a week with Shannon and her family shortly before she died.  Oh, my sweet friend-fighting with courage and grace I had never witnessed before. Her cancer had spread once again causing tremendous pain and weakness.  But she was determined we would go shopping, and we did.  She had also planned an outing for us at a lovely tea room, and we went.  I watched as she pushed through, insisting on serving dinner and giving attention to her family-she loved them so much.

Shannon’s kindness as a friend, patience as a mom, and her unwavering faith in the face of terrible tragedy continues to impact my life. We may have only lived in the same town for one year, fifteen years ago, but I miss her.  The grief that she is not here with her family remains.  I keep a picture of the two of us on a shelf in my closet.  When I look at this sweet photo, I think about the power and importance of friends.  And remembering our instantaneous friendship, I am grateful.

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Thankful

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In an earlier blog post, The Struggle for Control, I shared the story of when my husband, Gart, and I were hit by a drunk driver.  At the time of the accident,  I was eight months pregnant with our first child, Robert. This story is multi-faceted, and I was not quite ready to share the following details in my earlier post.  Honestly, I’m never quite sure how they will be received.

The week after our accident I was recovering at home.  Being eight months pregnant with broken ribs was no fun.  My mom was staying with us to help with cooking and housework, etc so Gart could go back to work.  Although thankful we were all okay, there were many moments of worry and anger.  Worry over the baby, anger at the driver who chose to drive drunk, anger at the establishment where he and his friends had been drinking the night before… negative emotions all around.

One afternoon my mom began to share that something strange had happened to her the night before the accident.  She had not wanted to tell me before for fear of upsetting me further.  Doctors orders were for rest and calm.  Not an easy task when you’re feeling worried and angry!  Looking back, her timing was perfect and helped me work through difficult feelings.

Our first baby shower was scheduled to take place the day our accident occurred. My mom and Aunt Linda were driving up from Arkansas, so it was not unusual that we spoke on the phone the night before.  Last minute details, what time they were leaving, what time we would arrive at the shower-a normal phone call.  Except for the added air of excitement as we said, “Love you!  See you tomorrow!”

For my mom, however, what happened next was the furthest thing from normal.

Through her tears, mom explained that right after she hung up the phone that evening before the accident, she heard a voice.  Clear and precise words, ‘That is the last time you will talk to Kelley.” Obviously, she was shaken and tried to put the thought out of her mind.  Where did that come from? Why would she think such a thing?  But the voice would not go away, so she began to pray.

Her prayers continued through the night and during the drive to Oklahoma the following day.  Pulling in the driveway at my in-law’s house, she immediately noticed our car was not there-we should have already arrived.  My brother-n-law came out to greet them and of course, she knew instantly something was wrong.  It is difficult to imagine the fear my mom felt at that moment…

A picture was taken of our car after the accident.  The driver’s side smashed, the trunk pushed in, the windshield broken…but my side of the car looked like it had never been touched-not even a scratch.  I remember someone commenting, “It looks like an angel was guarding your door.”

Psalm 91:11 says, “For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways…”

I’m not sure how to adequately explain these events, yet I choose to believe.  I believe my mom’s prayers were answered.  I believe an angel was sent to protect.  Did I actually see one? No.  I don’t understand the how or why.  Sometimes my thoughts wander, thinking about how differently things could have turned out.  Truth is, none of us are guaranteed another breath, so I don’t dwell in that space for long.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow.  What is your life?  You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”  James 4:14

Does this story impact the way I live my life each day?  Not like it should, I’m afraid.  As for today, I am thankful for my mom, who continues to be strong in her faith and persistent in her prayers.  I am thankful for her wisdom in sharing her part of the story with me at just the right moment.  And at this moment, maybe thankful is the best thing for me to be.

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The Innocence of Imagination

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We have a new friend in music class this year, and he is making quite a splash!

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This week, my K, 1st, and 2nd-grade classes have been meeting Freddie the Frog.  Freddie is a cute, green hand puppet who lives on Treble Clef Island.  Books, songs, and lessons teaching basic music concepts accompany this sweet puppet.  Even though I am excited about using these new teaching materials, it definitely takes me out of my comfort zone.  Honestly, I had doubts about whether or not the students would buy in, or if I could convincingly utilize a puppet.

First-graders helped ease my uncertainties.  After telling students I wanted to introduce them to a special friend, Freddie suddenly appeared on my arm.  I explained that he was shy, afraid the kids would not like him.  Their sweet faces showed great concern as they quickly reassured Freddie that they did indeed like him.  We then learned a new song, and students used animal hand puppets to “sing” their new song to Freddie.  Oh my goodness…what a site!

Almost forgot to mention, I’m the only one who can hear Freddie speak. He whispers in my ear, I relay his messages, and students giggle.

Fast forward…Freddie needed to rest while we listened to a recording of one of his adventures.  On the recording, the students would finally hear Freddie’s voice.  His singing voice is a little silly and high-pitched, and a couple of students chuckled as they listened. Then I overheard one little girl (pointing toward the puppet) say, “Don’t make fun of Freddie.  He can hear us!”

Such innocence and imagination.  And it did not stop there.  A few moments later, as students were gathering supplies to color a picture of Freddie’s room, the same little girl snuck over to where he was resting.  She walked right up to him, serious little face, and said, “I like your room, Freddie.”  Cuteness overload.

As class time was wrapping up there were many questions-can I show Freddie my picture?  Can we tell him goodbye?  Can I give him a hug?  So, Freddie accompanied me to the back of the room and hugged each of his new friends as they walked out the door.

I started thinking…why is it the older we get, the less we use our imaginations in creative ways?  Obviously, we must grow up and be responsible adults.  We are quite capable of conjuring all kinds of “what if” situations, causing much worry and fret.  I’ve certainly been guilty.  Often times we’ve had the experiences to back up our fears.

There is no simple solution to this adulthood dilemma.  Maybe if we took a moment to remember what it was like to be a kid…not an easy task I know.  After all, part of our job as parents and teachers is to help kids cope when bad things do happen.  But wouldn’t it be worth it to experience that innocence of imagination once again?

Even if it was only for five minutes…

Robbing the Cradle

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I’m sure you have heard the phrase “robbing the cradle.”  Typically it refers to someone marrying a much younger person.  People have teased me with that old saying upon discovering that I am two years older than my husband.  Of course, he never lets me forget that fact, even though two years hardly qualifies in this case.

On a recent trip to the grocery store, my daughter and I met an older couple.  As the wife turned around from the meat counter, she stumbled but caught herself.  She came to a stop right in front of us.  I asked if she was ok and said something like, “Oh, be careful!”  Very helpful I’m sure, but she smiled and struck up a conversation.

We soon learned that this fashionably dressed, white-haired, make-up wearing woman was ninety-three years old!  She shared her age proudly and thanked us as we commented on how amazing she looked.  Obviously, this woman had some spunk.

As we continued to chat, her husband (I assumed) walked toward us.  When something was mentioned about him watching out for her she laughed and said, “Oh yes he does.  Well, I did rob the cradle.”  Now mind you he was not a spring chicken and walked with a cane, but he had a precious smile.  We chuckled as she shared that she was twelve years older than her husband.  I quickly did the math in my head…so, that makes him eighty-one.

Just when I thought the story was finished, she shared more details.  “I was married to my first husband for seventy years.  And (pointing to her husband) we’ve only been married for three years.”  It took a few minutes for my brain to wrap around what this precious lady was saying.  Seventy years of marriage!  What a story!  I would imagine her current husband also had a story to tell, but he just smiled happily as she told hers.

Later I found myself wishing I could have spent more time with this sweet couple.  Many questions came to my mind.  How old was she when she first married?  What had happened to her husband?  Did she have any children?  How did she meet her current husband?  Answers I guess I will never have.  Unless we happen to run into each other at the grocery store again…you can bet I will be keeping my eyes open.

 

 

 

Connections

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After just finishing the first week of school, I found it interesting that today’s church sermon focused on connecting with others. Being intentional in greeting people, taking time to make connections…things we too often gloss over.  We all have our comfort zone, the same people we talk to, the same path we walk most days.  The pastor this morning reminded us that we never know what the person standing next to us might be going through. Most of us have been in that place of “needing to be greeted.”

While listening to the sermon, I began to reflect on this past “first week” of school.  In my upper elementary music classes, we listened to James Taylor’s “Today, Today, Today” for our beginning warm-up.  Opening lyrics say, “Today, today, today…I’m finally on my way.”  Students were asked to finish that thought, use their imagination and tell me where they were headed.

Their answers were funny, thoughtful, and interesting-ranging from-to the restroom, to lunch, home, grandma’s house, college, heaven.  And then the one that left the room silent,  “On my way to visit my dad in prison.”   As if that wasn’t surprising enough, another sweet student said almost exactly the same thing.  Serious connections.  Right in the middle of music class, two students discover they share a difficult life situation.  And then I overheard these two precious kiddos connect further as one shared they were actually in foster care right now.

I knew at that moment what we were doing was important, but didn’t really give it much thought after the fact.  The week was long, there were so many things to get done.  I was so tired.  Today’s church sermon reminded me of the importance of those connections.  Teacher to student, student to student-we all need each other.  And if I expect my students to listen and learn from me, I must be willing to listen and learn from them.

Here’s to a week of playing some super fun rhythm and singing games in Mrs. Morris’s music class!  And in the midst of our making music, may we also make lasting connections which will help us through the tough days this life inevitably brings.

The Space Between Happy and Sad

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Have you ever experienced happiness and sadness simultaneously? All mixed together, each emotion fighting for control.  I’m not sure I can adequately explain this dilemma.  Writing the words down on paper provides little clarity, as I continue to inch back and forth between these two emotions.

We finally had contact with our friend Marie!  Her new home is not close to us, and her foster mom graciously offered to meet us for lunch.  Rachel and I were so happy to see her!  After seeing her regularly over the past year, this would be our first visit in two months.  There had only been one phone conversation.  I understood.   Adjusting to a new home, especially after all the trauma she has suffered, is difficult, and I wanted her to have the time she needed.

As soon as Marie saw us she hugged us and asked, “Did you miss me?”  Oh, sweet girl!  Seeing her smiling and joking with her foster mom brought great relief.  They have obviously bonded, and she is being well cared for.  When it was time to order drinks her mom asked if she wanted lemonade.  I smiled…lemonade is her favorite.

We enjoyed chatting and laughing over lunch.  Looking through the photo album Rachel and I made for her brought smiles and happy memories from this past year.  So why did feelings of sadness start creeping in when it was time to say goodbye?  I fought back my tears, not wanting Marie to think something was wrong.  And trust me, she would notice.

Where did our visit leave me?  Somewhere between happy and sad, inching my way back to happy.  This sweet child has been through so much, but now she is living in a home with a family.  For that I am thankful.  My role in her life will continue to change, and that is ok.  Yesterday I was teacher and advocate.  Today I am a friend.  And that is something we all need…always.

Marie called this evening.  We talked about the week, her new school, friends, and family.  The conversation was a happy one.  But oh her questions…”Do you miss me?  Will you see me tomorrow?” As our phone call ended, once again I found myself in that space between happy and sad.  Somehow I kept my tears at bay, realizing it would be selfish of me to allow the sadness to win.  At this moment, the reasons for happiness where Marie is concerned far outweigh the sad.

The Voice of an Old Friend

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It amazes that a music composition from 1839, which I learned to play thirty years ago, has such a powerful influence over me today.  Arabeske Op. 18 by Robert Schumann was my absolute favorite college recital piece.  I’ve always found Schumann’s ability to beautifully weave a melodic theme throughout a piece captivating.  He presents the theme, expands it to represent a variety of emotions, and finally restates in a peaceful resolution.  This particular composition clearly follows that structure.

My second favorite Schumann composition is Frauen-Liebe und Leben (A Woman’s Love and Life.)  A song cycle based on a series of poems, each song represents a different phase of the love relationship from first meeting to wedding and finally ending in death.  This lovely depiction of life also follows the structure of beginning and ending with a recognizable theme. In the final song, the piano provides a beautiful postlude,  giving the listener a reminder of the true love represented by the recurring melodic theme.

My memories of playing these two pieces are crystal clear, relating to specific events in my life.

Picture a young, twenty-one-year-old college student, senior year.  The two years previous marked by a difficult, controlling relationship.  An unwise decision to marry this person had ended in divorce after a year and a half.  Now I was attempting to get my life back on track, finish college, and figure out what was next.  Many evenings were spent in a tiny practice room.  And often when I practiced Schumann’s Arabeske,  the tears would flow uncontrollably.

Fast forward nine years-happily married with three young children.  Looking for a job, preferably in the music field.  Directed by a previous employer, I applied for a staff accompanist opening at the Univerisity of Tulsa.  The interview process involved playing a prepared piece and sight reading.  I chose to play the Schumann Frauen-Liebe und Leben since it related to the position, and because it had been one of my favorite recital pieces from graduate school.  There I sat, all alone on that stage, desperately wanting this job.  I played the Schumann with clarity and emotion, sight read confidently and got the position.

So what directed my thoughts to these pieces on this day?  Today was exhausting.  It was the third full day of a brand new school year.  Following a full day of teaching elementary music with the grand finale of car duty, I trudged back to my classroom.  Walking in, I immediately noticed the music sitting on the piano in the corner-Arabeske.  It was like an old friend calling me to the bench.

The simple act of playing the piano always calms my brain.  I’ve experienced this truth many times, so why don’t I take the time to do it more often?  I’m not sure-but today I had no choice.  Sitting down at the piano, I began to play this old familiar piece.  Reaching the last page, playing that final melodic theme, listening to it fade away…I let out a big sigh of relief.  Still tired, but now relaxed and much calmer, preparing my thoughts for the next day didn’t feel so overwhelming.

Will I do this every day?  Probably not.  But hopefully, more often than I have in recent days.  Playing the piano has an undeniable positive influence on my state of mind, and days like today the music sounds like the voice of an old friend…