8. The Psalm

The Psalm last Sunday caught my attention.

One of the things I like about the Episcopal church is its orderly use of scripture. Four readings every week: Old Testament, New Testament, Gospel, and a Psalm. We follow a three-year cycle called the Revised Common Lectionary and as a musician it is most helpful. I know far in advance what the lessons will be and if I were so inclined I could plan the music today for the 8th Sunday after Pentecost, 2025. The lectionary does not skip over difficult passages and it binds the readings together in a meaningful and relevant way. Best of all the preacher of the day can’t prepare a sermon and then go looking for scripture to back it up.

At my church we sing the Psalm on most Sundays when the choir is present. We do this in various ways, from plainchant to Anglican chant to hymntunes. Often the music allows the text to be understood on a deeper level than just words alone. The choir rehearses the Psalm several times and gets to know it well. This week we used a beautiful Simplified Anglican Chant which particularly highlighted the words of the Psalm.

Psalm 139 is about God’s loving creation of all human beings and the complete knowledge God has of each of us. The Psalmist sits in wonder and amazement that God “created my inmost parts; knit me together in my mother’s womb”. And he goes on to thank God, because “I am wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, and I know it well.” Please understand that I don’t take this literally; in fact I’m not sure I can begin to explain what it means to me. But the idea of a Creator taking the time to know every part of me is humbling.

I have been wondering why this Psalm struck such a chord with me; why I have not been able to get both the music and text out of my head for several days now. Maybe this is at least part of the answer: for some time I have been quite busy as a caretaker; of my parents, my husband, some friends. I do this willingly and freely, even perhaps naturally. But the balance between caring for others and myself can get skewed and this past week was one of those times. Singing that Psalm eased my weariness and filled my depleted spirit. And for that I am truly grateful.

Psalm 139: 1-5, 12-17

Lord, you have searched me out and known me;
you know my sitting down and my rising up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
You trace my journeys and my resting places
and are acquainted with all my ways.

Indeed, there is not a word on my lips,
but you, O Lord, know it altogether.
You press upon me behind and before
and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

For you yourself created my inmost parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I will thank you because I am marvelously made;
your works are wonderful, and I know it well.

My body was not hidden from you,
while I was being made in secret
and woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb;
all of them were written in your book;
they were fashioned day by day,
when as yet there was none of them.

How deep I find your thoughts, O God!
how great is the sum of them!
If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand;
to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.

8. Thanksgiving and Hope

7. So Many Books, So Little Time

I have always loved that saying, ever since I saw it on a button worn by a librarian years ago. It is exactly how I feel, constantly. For a few years now I have been keeping a journal of the books I read and looking at the list for 2008 I realize what a good reading year it was. That list is unusually lengthy, though, and that gives me pause as it seems to point to some changes in my life, particularly my growing desire, and need, for solitude.

My preferred diet of soul food has long been both listening to and performing music. Those are what have brought me through the roughest times of my life. But increasingly I find that I need quiet, and lots of it. It is restorative and gives me energy to be my public self. And what better place to find quiet than when reading a book. On many a cold winter weekend my favorite activity is to sit by the fire and read. During stressful performance times a book is my solace and comfort. Sometimes I just can’t wait for the chores of the day to end so that I can crawl into bed with my latest companion.

In no particular order here are my favorites from the past year, several of which were written well before 2008. It has been a difficult job culling this list to something reasonable and after half a century of reading mostly novels, I find it interesting to see so much non-fiction on my list.

Marie Antoinette by Antonia Fraser: a huge, entertaining and yes, controversial book that I read in preparation for a trip to Paris with Emily last spring. I learned so much about the history and culture of the 18th century and it certainly made my trip more meaningful.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert: a re-read and another prep for Paris. This time around I found myself seeing the heroine as a sympathetic character and understanding her plight to be more than that of just a spoiled woman.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini: a novel about two women in modern day Afghanistan. Even though our country has been “at war” with Afghanistan for years now, I knew little about it or its people. The plight of these women is so desperate as to seem almost hopeless. This book spurred me to learn more and led me to an American organization that solicits and sends handknits to the people there:
afghansforafghans.org.

Interpreter of Maladies and Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri: two beautiful books of heart wrenching short stories about love, loss, and acceptance.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver: both reading this book and traveling to Paris have made me very aware of what I put in my mouth. I have devoured all of Kingsolver’s novels and couldn’t put down this chronicle of her family’s year of eating only locally grown and raised foods. Fortunately I read this in the summer when we had a garden in our backyard and a farmer’s market down the street. Now I cringe in the supermarket when I see that the asparagus I want is from South America and the whole wheat bread seems to have more chemicals than flour.

Deaf Sentence by David Lodge: Bill’s daughters gave him this for his 75th birthday, not realizing that it was really me who would enjoy it. Both humorous and poignant, this is a novel of aging and the depletion that comes with it. It helped me look at the older people in my life with more compassion and understanding.

To Love What Is: A Marriage Transformed by Alix Cates Shulman: This small volume caught my eye in the new books section of the Bar Harbor library. The author tells the story of her husband’s catastrophic fall and subsequent brain damage. So many messages are in this book: live in the moment, be grateful for your blessings, life can change in an instant and nothing you do can prepare you for that. This woman’s courage and deep, abiding love for her husband and their marriage was extremely moving.

An American Childhood by Annie Dillard: for years I have wanted to read this author and I finally did. I loved her look back at growing up and discovering what it means to be alive.

I have saved the best for last: as wonderful as all the above books are, my favorite reads of 2008 were three books by Nuala O’Faolain. They deserve a separate posting and that will be next.

Happy Reading.

6. Yankee Stuffing

For nearly four decades my Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners included a delicious roast turkey and cornbread dressing. The dressing, a mixture of cornbread with a little white bread thrown in, was cooked in a separate pan. The top was brown and crusty and the interior moist with broth, celery and onions. It had just the right amount of sage and, if my aunt had her way, chopped pecans. Invariably several “bites” were cut from the pan as the cooks finished preparing the meal.

I was taken aback at my first New England Thanksgiving dinner… the bird came out of the oven with something belching from its cavity. This soggy, gummy, tasteless mush is called stuffing and although I can pretend to like it, in my mind it’s always Yucky Yankee Bread Stuffing.

Yes, cooks here take pride in their stuffing, adding chestnuts, sausage, or oysters. Some try to make it healthy with whole wheat bread, apples, and walnuts. But this is supposed to take the place of cornbread dressing? Throughout my years in Maine I have tried to assuage my husband’s Yankee roots by making this bread stuffing on occasion. Although he appreciated my effort, my heart must not have been in it as there was never any raving about my stuffing and it was always the last leftover in the fridge.

This Christmas I put my foot down and decided to make cornbread dressing. Unfortunately, in all those years of having holiday dinners in Lubbock my mother never showed me how to make it. Yes, she gave me her “recipe,” which consisted of a little of this, a dash of that, just add some broth until moist: nothing very specific. I have tried it in the past, with little success at replicating her masterpiece. So this year I went to the internet and found what I thought was a similar recipe to hers, with precise measurements. Alas, it did not turn out the way I wanted! I’m afraid I need a hands on cooking lesson from mom.

Of course one has to have a turkey to go with the dressing and that’s never been my specialty either. I have tried roasting a turkey every which way and they have often come out dry or underdone. On Thanksgiving this year we went to some friends’ house and had one of the best turkeys I’ve ever had (don’t tell my mother). Doug was kind enough to give me his recipe and walk me through the brining method step-by-step. I followed his directions to a “tee” and it was fabulous! So moist and flavorful. Now if I can just get the dressing down I might be able to host a holiday dinner myself someday.

As the hectic month of December rolled on I began to question the wisdom of preparing such a labor intensive Christmas dinner. Work was a massive accelerando to Christmas Eve and I hardly had time enough to make out the grocery list and shop. Emily and I spent most of Christmas day in the kitchen, listening to Ella Fitzgerald as we chopped and sautéed. Having pulled into the driveway about 1 am that morning after Christmas Eve services, I was tired and briefly thought that going out to dinner might have been a good idea. But as we sat down to our beautiful meal complete with Christmas china and a fully lit Advent wreath I began to feel the stress of the past month melt away. I took a deep breath and a sip of wine and realized that I could now truly savor this day.

5. The Gifts of God, for the People of God

Many years ago, as I was running away from my Southern Baptist background, I was attracted to the Episcopal church. Its liturgy and deliberate emphasis on the Eucharist were like a beacon to my theologically confused soul. I began attending a local church and even sang in its fine choir for several months. But as I fell into my work as a church musician I kept getting hired at Methodist and UCC churches. Finally, in November of 2005 I fulfilled a long time dream and began working for an Episcopal congregation. It wasn’t many months later that I became an official member of the parish, receiving the Bishop’s anointing on my forehead.

I am intrigued with the idea of communion, as we called it in more “Protestant” churches. In the Episcopal church, as in Catholic and Lutheran churches, the Eucharist is paramount, the whole “raison d’etre.” Not the sermon, not the music, nor the social aspect of going to church: it’s all about the taking of the Body and Blood of Christ.

At my church I arrive each Sunday morning just as the first service, with no music, is finishing. If the sermon or scripture readings have been a bit long the early crowd is still in the midst of the service in the chapel. I quietly sit down in the church with a bird’s eye view of the small group of worshippers. It is very quiet: the sounds of shuffling feet, of the priest’s voice saying “the Body of Christ,” the “amen” responses. I like to watch the people as they return to their pews and sit or kneel while considering the sacrament they’ve just received. .

Recently I attended the Church Music Conference at Sewanee TN, which is specifically for Episcopal musicians. And I had the great privilege, and responsibility, of being a chalice bearer at one of the morning eucharists. Normally I don’t get this opportunity as I am doodling something on the organ during this part of the service. Even after receiving instruction from the priest on how to hold the chalice and wipe it with the white linen cloth, I was very nervous. Would I spill the wine down someone’s shirt? Would I drop the chalice? Would I forget my lines? “The Body of Christ; the Cup of Salvation.”

I was mesmerized: the humility, the need, the hunger of those who came to partake of the bread and wine. The power and mystery of these sacraments. The emotion welling up in me as I repeated my lines 50 or so times.

I have noticed this power with the children in the choir as they anticipate and take communion, too. Even though part of their excitement is related to tasting a drop of wine on their wafer, they also sense something deeper than their encounters in everyday life. Already it is the pinnacle of worship for them.

Several years ago, when I was working for a UCC church, I invited an Episcopal friend who was visiting the area to attend “my” church on Easter. “It’s going to be great!” I said, “Brass, majestic hymns, even Handel’s ‘Hallelujah’ chorus. We’ll pull out all the stops!” She thought carefully for a minute, then replied, “That all sounds lovely, but do you have communion?” “No,” I answered, “that makes the visitors uncomfortable and the service too long.” Slowly she answered that on Easter she really must partake of the Eucharist. I was rather hurt and didn’t understand.

But now I do.

Eternal god, heavenly father,
You have graciously accepted us as living members
Of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ,
And you have fed us with spiritual food
In the Sacrament of his Body and Blood.
Send us now into the world in peace,
And grant us strength and courage
To love and serve you
With gladness and singleness of heart;
Through Christ our Lord. Amen. (The Book of Common Prayer)

4. Leaving Lubbock

I have just returned from helping my mother and dad sort thru their belongings in anticipation of a move to a retirement community. I am weary of this chore…this is probably the third or fourth time I’ve gone to help them clean out their house of forty years. But this time it looks like they will really move; the plans are made for a moving truck and my sister has found them a nice place to live in the Dallas area, near her family.

Most likely this was my last trip to Lubbock until someone dies, and it was a bittersweet time for me. The house there has been an important part of my life since I was 13 and my mind is full of memories of all that has taken place there. One of the best of those memories is the smell of turkey roasting in the oven with a big Christmas tree overflowing with packages. When I think of that house the first thing that comes to mind is a crowded dining room table with a card table extension, and the generations coming and going: my grandparents, parents (my mother constantly running back and forth to the kitchen, never really having a chance to sit down), Aunt Dot, my siblings, their spouses and children, my husbands, and Emily. I wear a beautiful diamond band that was my grandmother’s 50th wedding anniversary gift: my grandfather gave it to her at that table during a special celebration.

I have “come home” to Lubbock under so many varying circumstances, and that house was always there, my base. My first husband and I would excitedly return there from Baylor, and before many years passed I was coming back alone. I remember some very difficult nights in my room then, unable to tell anyone what I was going thru. And then I brought Bill there and before long a new, precious baby. Even when our finances were extremely tight during our first years in Maine I managed to scrimp and save so that Emily and I could always go back at least once a year. And then there was the year I made that trip 5 times, due to my parents’ illness and my brother’s death.

To live in the same place for 40 years is in some way a great gift. To have a Christmas party with the same friends for decades, watching them age and struggle, watching their children grow up. To see your community change, and yourself with it. To know your plumber and appliance repairman on a first-name basis. To attend the same church for years, watching pastors come and go, witnessing babies baptized and friends buried. These things have not been a part of my experience. I have been so restless in my adult life, moving every few years to a new job and location. But knowing that the family home was waiting for me has been, in hindsight, a comfort.

On this trip I went to all the places that have become routine for me on my visits “home”: El Chico restaurant, Tom and Bingo’s barbeque, Mrs. Camp’s bakery, the sprawling South Plains Mall, and Barnes and Noble (in my mind, the intellectual bastion of the area). I walked every morning thru my familiar neighborhood, looking at all those ranch houses and their perfectly manicured yards for the umpteenth time, and drove thru the Tech Terrace area, where I would want to live should I be in Lubbock. I marveled once again at the vast campus of Texas Tech University and its beautiful southwest-inspired architecture. And this time I appreciated and enjoyed the big sky, refusing to let it pin me down, subdue me.

For the first time in years I visited the cemetery where both sets of grandparents and two great grandmothers are buried. These were all Lubbock pioneers in its formative years.

My mother broke down as I was leaving, grasping at any straw to stay in the house. “But we have been so selfish! What about you and Amy? You won’t be able to come back here anymore!” I told her that she and daddy were giving us a gift by not dying in the house and leaving it for us to clean out afterwards. I remained stoic as I got in the car, but as I pulled out of the driveway huge sobs rose from deep within and enveloped my entire body.

Goodbye, Lubbock.

3. Requiem

Last Sunday afternoon, October 26, my choir performed John Rutter’s Requiem. We did the small ensemble version, with flute, oboe, ‘cello, harp, timpani and organ, and had 21 singers. The performance was beautiful and heartfelt…not perfect, of course…we made it successfully thru the chaotic introduction but dragged at times in Out of the Deep. The Sanctus was exciting and the ending of Lux aeterna full of hope and peace. I could tell that many in the audience were moved by the music.

I am not sure why I tackled this ambitious project as it made much extra work for me. But I knew the choir would ultimately love the piece as I do and would become a better ensemble for having worked on it. We had four “guest” singers who filled out our sound and indeed at times that sound was glorious.

Although I often dreaded the intense score study necessary and the drudgery of going over voice parts yet again, I began to relish the intimacy with which I came to know the music. And the feeling of standing on the podium, baton in hand, all eyes on me, is powerful. I love leading others to communicate a piece of music, to opening their souls to its meaning.

This experience of all our rehearsals and the performance last week has once again made me aware of the unifying force of music. My choir consists of rabid Republicans and Democrats, well-to-do and struggling, young and old. Yet here we were, together, making music. In this time of daily disastrous financial and world news, working on the Requiem soothed our souls and helped us focus on the spiritual. And I believe that we gave that same gift to our community.

Thank you, John Rutter, for Requiem…and thank you, choir and orchestra, for your beautiful, expressive performance of this music.