All the Sentimental Musings as They Relate to Junior High Band

Last night, Mike and I went to Aaron's band concert. Per covid restrictions, he was only allowed to have two guests, and, as his parents, we felt that the privilege was rightfully ours.

It was one of those times that will probably remain sharp and crystal clear in my memory with very little effort on my part. Without even quite realizing it, several things had built up in my subconscious over the last few years, and they came to a head during that little band concert. It was one of those glorious, serendipitous moments where everything feels just right, and because of that rightness, you know that it's something that will stay with you forever. It's amazing that a group of 6th-8th graders could have this sort of effect on me, but it's true.

Five years ago, I sat in that same auditorium for a very similar fall concert, but instead of Aaron on the stage, it was my nephew, Steven. It was his first time performing as the pianist for the jazz band, and I wanted to be there for it since I had been his piano teacher for several years. Contrary to my rather low expectations of a junior high band concert, I was pleasantly surprised. They actually sounded really good.

I had left Mike home with the boys, but as I sat there enjoying each song, I suddenly pictured Aaron, who was seven-years-old at the time. I had the distinct thought, In a few years, when Aaron is Steven's age, could he possibly have the necessary skills to play an instrument, create intentional music,  and follow a director? It honestly felt so far beyond our current reality that I couldn't fathom it.

Flash forward to school last year. Aaron was in the sixth grade in the same junior high Steven had attended. When he registered for classes, band was an easy choice. He had learned to play the trombone during his last two years of elementary school, and he had suffered (yes, literally suffered) through the most excruciating and unproductive rehearsals just so he could bypass foundations band in junior high and jump up to the next level.

It was by far his favorite class. He loved the teacher, and for the first time, he was playing music with kids who actually wanted to be there. No more "Row, Row, Row Your Boat;" they were playing real stuff now.

His sixth grade year was short-lived though. It ended just eight days after it began. As I picked him up on that last day, he told me excitedly, "We started the best song in band today! It sounds so cool!" He was well aware that he wasn't going back to school, but he was still so pumped for this song, and I thought my heart would break.

And finally, just a few weeks ago, with Aaron healthy again and school back in session, he came home from school one afternoon and informed me that he was going to try out for jazz band. His practicing had been very sporadic during his recovery, and I was skeptical about his abilities. I didn't discourage him from it, but I stayed on the sidelines and let him take ownership of it.

He ended up making it, and that one extracurricular class has brought him so much joy. He doesn't care that he has to get up at 6:00 and leave when it is still dark and cold, nor does he mind that he has to wear a mask when he plays or put a piece of fabric over the bell of his instrument. It is all worth it.

All of these thoughts and memories were going through my head as Mike and I sat in the darkened auditorium last night, spaced far away from everyone else, and watched him play. He was looking sharp in concert black with his hair slicked back. His shiny brass trombone glinted beneath the stage lights. In unison with the other performers he slipped his mouthpiece underneath the flap in his mask. His eyes were fixed on his teacher who tapped out a measure before the opening notes sounded. His black dress shoe kept the beat, and his slide moved in synchronization with the other trombonists. It was like watching a dance, their instruments moving in time with the notes.

My eyes filled with tears. I couldn't help it. Unbidden, I remembered my disbelief from five years before and stared wonderingly at the reality before me. There he was--mature, self-assured, completely in his element, doing exactly what he wanted to do last year but couldn't. 

Mike is generally not overly sentimental. I am enough of that for both of us, as the above musings will confirm. But as the jazz band finished their final piece last night, and the sparse audience enthusiastically applauded, he leaned over to me and said, "That was the best concert I've ever been to!" I turned to him in surprise. I mean, it was good, but we've been to our fair share of concerts with world-class musicians, and this was still, after all, just junior high. 

He amended, "I've never enjoyed a concert more than that one."

And suddenly, it was clear to me. He had fallen under the same spell I had, that of being a witness to Aaron fulfilling his own purpose, completely independent of our interests or passions. And absolutely beaming while doing it.

For once, our sentimentalities were in perfect alignment, and I couldn't have agreed more. 

What is My Errand?

Quarantine life has been good to us so far.

Mike has been working exclusively from home for over a month. It was a struggle at first, and he will still be grateful when he finally gets to be back in a real work environment, but we've fallen into a certain rhythm where it's perfectly normal to have him come up the stairs mid-morning, and I've taken advantage of his close proximity to ask him questions or have him help with potty training. 

The boys are doing well with their schoolwork. They know what is expected of them each day, and they do it. For the most part, I am pretty hands off, except for Clark. Their teachers have been involved and organized, and although we sincerely hope they will all (even Aaron) get to go back to school in the fall, we are making this work.

Our home is a safe, happy place. We are able to do almost all of our favorite activities. We love reading aloud in the mornings before school, rollerblading down the street in the evenings, watching movies, doing puzzles, singing songs around the piano, playing games, worshiping together, baking (and eating), and going on walks. Home has become the haven I always wanted it to be.

Our experience, although not unique, has not been the reality for many people. The immense suffering around the world is vast and agonizing. It is emotional, physical, financial, spiritual, and mental. Some of it is related to the current pandemic, but much of it was already there. The heartache created by this virus has not given the world a free pass on other suffering. It has simply added another layer--the straw that just might break the proverbial camel's back. 

During the first few days, as the virus spread across the nation with alarming speed, I inhaled the news at a feverish pace. I held my breath as things I had never even considered became a stark new reality. I watched the security of everyday life crumble around me. The pain and suffering of others was brought to the forefront of my mind. It was suffocating and unbearable. 

I did not know how I, in my very small sphere, could help with problems that seemed insurmountable.  I felt myself pulling inward because I couldn't handle all of this pain that I couldn't do anything about.

But one day I was reading the Book of Enos, and I was struck by the progression of Enos' prayer. First, he cried in "mighty prayer and supplication for [his] own soul." Following this, he "began to feel a desire for the welfare of [his] brethren." And finally after this, he prayed "with many long strugglings" for his enemies, the Lamanites. 

Applied to my own life, this model of concern for others might look like this: attention to myself and my family, followed by friends, neighbors, and extended family, and finally strangers around the world. The circle begins small but is able to expand outward organically as immediate needs are seen and met.

I had been frozen in indecision because I didn't know where to expend my energies or resources when there were limitless options; and what I could do seemed so small and inconsequential anyway that it seemed rather futile. Although this blueprint didn't do anything to change the collective and individual suffering all around me, it lifted my own paralyzation so I could once more move forward with purpose and genuine intent.

At this same time, a question came into my mind that has since become my daily mantra: What is my errand? It is based on something the prophet Jacob said when he began his ministry to his people: "Wherefore I, Jacob, gave unto them these words as I taught them in the temple, having first obtained mine errand from the Lord."

I decided that I would try to be like Jacob and obtain my errand from the Lord every day. Once again, this narrowed my focus to a single day, even a single hour, which made it so much more manageable for me.

When I wake up and begin my day, I ask, "What is my errand?" And then I listen. I pay attention to the thoughts that come into my head. Interestingly, they are most often about someone in my family or neighborhood, thus following the pattern set forth by Enos. Once I have one or two impressions, I work on accomplishing those before I ask the question again. It feels very much like I am reporting to my commanding officer for duty each day, asking for my orders, and then returning after they are completed.

These errands are small things, easily accomplished in a day. For example, one day I had the thought that I should do something for my sister, Angela. She is currently serving a mission in Pennsylvania. The work has ground to a halt because she and her companion have to stay inside all of the time. They have found creative ways to serve and teach and share their message, but for a very social person like my sister, the confinement is taking a serious toll on her morale. I wondered what I could do for her. I got the idea to cut up strips of paper, write inspirational quotes on them, and then mail them to her. Each day she could pull out one piece of paper, read the quote, and then loop it through the previous one, forming a paper chain.

Another day, I sat down to order some sheet music. I went to Amazon as usual, but then I had the impression, Why don't you order from Day Murray Music [my local music store] instead? It ended up costing me more, but the service was excellent, and it arrived at my house in two days.

When we participated in the worldwide fast on Good Friday last week, I felt like I should pay a fast offering, even though I had just done so a couple of weeks before. I realized that the Church can do things with its resources that I can't do alone with mine.

One morning I approached the Lord with my question, and my sweet elderly neighbor's name came into my mind. I knew I needed to call and check in with her that day.

This is just a sampling of some of the things Heavenly Father has asked me to do in the last few weeks. I feel almost silly writing them down because I know they sound small and insignificant. But I feel strongly that as we each do our small bit in our individual spheres, great things can happen.

I want to tell you about one other small thing I've added to my days. This one is also inspired by Enos. Like me, Enos realized that there were some things beyond his scope of influence. About the Lamanites, he said, "For at the present our strugglings were vain in restoring them to the true faith." In fact, at that point, the Lamanites were threatening to destroy the records and traditions of Enos and his people if they got the chance.

There was only one thing Enos could do for them, and so he did that one thing: he prayed. And the Lord said, "I will grant unto thee according to they desires." That simple prayer of faith made a difference.

Like Enos, there are many things right now outside of my control. I don't have the medical skills to answer the call for help in the NYC hospitals; I don't have the connections to organize big drives for supplies; I don't have the knowledge to study this virus and develop a vaccine against it.

Instead, I have to do exactly what Enos did: see a need and pray for it.

I have made it a habit to pay attention to the seemingly random thoughts I have throughout the day. If a person pops into my memory, even if I haven't had any contact with them for years, I say a prayer for them right then. This is one way I'm expanding my circle. I have found that as my thoughts turn outward to others, my generosity and love expands as well.

I hope this quarantine won't last forever. In fact, I hope it's over before too long. But I also hope to take this simpler, slower pace with me and continue this daily habit of asking the Lord how He can use me. As I narrow my focus on these small things, my love for others is actually widening in a most miraculous way.

This Ball of String Called Life

I am envious of the birds--their cheerful twitterings and joyful exclamations of spring. No knowledge of a global pandemic; an economic collapse; a medium-sized earthquake. Oblivious to the chaos, they have retained their normalcy in a way that I long for.

I listened to them this morning as I sat on the steps on the side of our house. Everything was still and peaceful except for their sweet and repetitive songs--little calls back and forth to one another.

Then two neighbors walked by. I caught only the briefest snatch of their conversation, but it included the words "social distancing." It is what is on everyone's lips right now. And mind. And heart.

I went back to listening to the birds. As with everything else, they missed the memo about social distancing. They were enjoying brunch together, but I was not invited.

My dad used to read a story to my brothers and me about a young man who found a ball of string (or perhaps it was given to him--the details are a bit fuzzy). This ball of string gave him the ability to jump forward in his life. All he had to do was give a little tug on the string--unwind the ball just a bit--and he could easily move past his current situation. The catch was that he couldn't go back. Once the string was pulled, it could not be rewound.

At first he was reluctant to pull the string. He seemed to sense the danger in it. But it was too tempting. If there was something he was looking forward to, he unwound it ever so gently so that he didn't have to wait. When his daughter became ill, he jerked it forward to free her of the pain. Sometimes he pulled the string too hard, and he lost more of his life than he intended to. Bit by bit, his life slipped away until the string was nearly gone.

If I had that ball of string right now, I don't know if I could resist the urge to give it a wee pull. The unknown is what is weighing on me right now. I have no idea how long this could go on for. Will my kids ever go back to school? Or church? Will we ever take another family vacation? What about soccer, gymnastics, chess club, play dates, shopping, the library, book club, concerts, plays, date nights, and the like? Will we ever go back to "normal"? Or is that what this is?

Of course, we were somewhat prepared for this, having said no to many things over the last six months because of Aaron's compromised immune system. But now we've taken it to the next level. Or maybe we're just finally feeling exactly what it's been like for Aaron for these many months.

I went on a short walk this afternoon. Despite it being the first day of spring, the weather was cool and wet. I loved it. As I walked, I meditated. I have been meditating almost every day since I took Brooke Snow's Christian meditation course at the beginning of the year. It has been so grounding for me, and the benefits have continued as I've practiced it during this uncertain time.

While I was walking, I tried to do one of the seeing meditations. I attempted to picture events of the future through a lens of gratitude as if they had already happened. This is a meditation I have quite enjoyed in the past as it is full of the hope that comes with thinking about your dreams.

But today, my mind met a brick wall. I went back to the aspirations of last week, and they seemed insignificant, even ridiculous. I no longer knew if they were possible or even practical in our new reality. Maybe I needed to readjust my thinking to fit into this new framework. But I didn't know what that looked like. I tried to see over the wall, but it was too high. I didn't have a magical ball of string in my pocket that could effortlessly move me forward to the next scene of my life. I yearned for a glimpse of the future, but the present pushed back against it.

My mind wouldn't give up though. I went back to the basics: I imagined myself recognizing God's hand in my life. I felt His love for me, and I opened myself up in gratitude to Him. I pictured a future of happy, healthy children. They were doing the activities they love. A smile crossed my face, and I began to feel light. With each thought, it became easier to think the next one.

Yesterday I read Chapter 21 of Luke. This chapter highlights some of the events surrounding the destruction of Jerusalem and also the Second Coming. It makes mention of wars, commotions, earthquakes, pestilences, famines, and "fearful sights."  It is not exactly a pleasant chapter, and yet I came away from it feeling so much peace. The charge is given to "be not terrified" and "in your patience possess your souls." Both of these felt like timely reminders.

But it was verse 28 that especially caught my attention: "And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh." The imagery was powerful: Look up. Lift up your head. Redemption is coming.

There are many things beyond my control right now. But I can look up and see the good in the world around me. I can lift up my head and get to work. I can acknowledge the redemption that comes.

I want to hold my ball of string carefully--not dwelling on the past or rushing into the future but taking the moments and lessons as they come and letting them shape me. I want to let the string unwind at its own pace without any help from me. I don't want to miss out on the magic of today because I was so concerned about avoiding every ugly, disappointing moment. 

A friend came over on Tuesday evening to help me prune my peach tree. (Don't worry, we were very careful to follow the necessary precautions for no contact.) She guided me through the process of snipping off twigs and cutting down branches. We opened up the middle so light can reach the inside of the tree. As we pruned, I took notice of the new buds decorating each branch.They were full and plump, right on the cusp of blossoming. It will happen any day now.

Spring is my favorite time of year. And this spring, we will miss out on a lot of the things I love about this season. But one thing we will not have to miss is the bringing forth of new life. It will happen whether we notice it or not. Like the birds announcing the arrival of spring, the trees and flowers will follow their predetermined course and make each new day a celebration.

I think I will enjoy it more this year than I ever have before. It is reminiscent of past springs while at the same time paving the way for a brighter future. And I am going to bask in it now.

Deep Thoughts on Having a One-Year-Old

I had always wanted an April baby. I guess the fifth time's the charm.

The day was warm and sunny and smelled of cherry blossoms. The birth was relaxed and easy and filled with laughter. Both were perfect in their own way.

So maybe I can be forgiven for idealizing Ian's life just a little bit. Some of my dreams came true that day.

As this past year rushed by (at the speed of light, so it seemed), I found myself clinging to Ian's babyness: those squishy thighs, those soft cheeks, those baby blue eyes. As he reached each milestone, part of me wept, even while cheering him on.

Fortunately, he has taken his time with the milestones--at least the ones that involved movement--and that has helped ease the pain. He rolled pretty much exclusively until he was about ten months old. Then he learned how to army crawl. And just recently, he has begun scooting on his bum. That's because he still doesn't know how to get from a sitting to a crawling position or vice versa. Which means that if I sit him down,  he pretty much stays where he is, especially if he's on something that's difficult to scoot around on, like grass.

Before I had Ian, I knew slow movers existed. I just didn't know how wonderful they were. To be able to hold Ian on my lap and not have him constantly wriggling to get down is such a joy.

Because here's the other thing: in every other way, he's just like a one-year-old. He carries on "conversations" with us, says a few words, copies noises we make, laughs at our funny expressions and jokes, eats like a champ, delights in new toys, claps his little hands, and gives the best snuggles. It is so magical to have all of the personality of a one-year-old without all of the stress.

But I know these days are numbered. In fact, last week I took him to the doctor's for his one year check-up, and although Dr. VanDenBergh wasn't concerned per se about Ian's lack of crawling, it did make him think that Ian's hemoglobin level might be low. So he tested it, and sure enough, it was. We started giving him an iron supplement, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that the very next day (the very next day!) Ian got up on his hands and knees and then pushed up to his feet to get into a downward dog position. So maybe the iron is just the oomph he needed to get himself up off the ground. Either way, he's not going to be content with his current transportation options for much longer.

I've tried to enjoy each of my babies fully, completely, and not wish away the fleeting time. But it has felt more desperate with Ian. Is this how it feels with your last baby?

Because I don't know. There haven't been any flashing lights or loud proclamations, metaphorically speaking. Maybe there never will be. I think a part of me will always yearn for a baby but maybe not because I actually want another baby but rather I just want my own babies back.

I feel all this pressure, but I think it's pressure I've brought upon myself. If Ian really is our last, I want to feel like we're ending on a high note. I want him to be the most perfect baby that ever was and complete our family like the candle on his birthday cake. Because of that I've been quick to identify the good (he takes a binky!!!) and slow to find the bad (he gagged on all solid food for three months!).

When you think about it, this isn't really a bad way of looking at life. But it's also not really fair to Ian if it means I'm putting impossibly high expectations on him, nor is it fair to another possible child in our future who would undoubtedly be compared to our perfect "last" baby.

And so I'm realizing, once again, how important it is to just live in the present. And not just with one-year-old Ian. But with three-year-old Clark and six-year-old Bradley and eight-year-old Maxwell and nine-year-old Aaron.

I don't know what the future holds, but at this very moment, everything feels exactly right. Not that everything is perfect but that I think our family is exactly what it's supposed to be like right now. And that feels good.