Gaudium Immensum Est

Several years ago, I lost my voice on Easter and, for me, it was one of the worst Easters I experienced because I couldn't sing. I couldn't sing with the choir so I sat in the congregation. I remember crying during the hymns because I could sing, not even the hymns. I had nothing. So much of my faith is tied to singing and music, my voice, my ability to sing for God's glory, to sing for Him and to Him. And, I've often found that I sing my best when I am not singing for myself.

On Good Friday this year, I sang at the conclusion of the Tenebrae service. The emotion of the evening overcame me and I barely finished. There many stops and shuddering breaths as I struggled to finish. In addition to the emotion, there was an unexplained catch in my throat; I thought it was just tears that I was trying to hold back. The next morning, I woke with no voice. I could sing one note, middle C. My heart sank; I did not want to "miss" Easter again.

Easter dawned and I had three notes. Well, that was some sort of progress, right? I went to church, praying the notes would come. They did for the few short hours of the Easter services. I held back during the first service but sang with full joy on the final hallelujah of the ending chorus of the second service. I left the church with my voice shattered.

And descended into a lingering cough that today, three weeks later, still keeps me up at night. I've sucked lozenges, more than is healthy (can you overdose on menthol?), gone to the doctor, taken cough medicine, stayed home a few days from work. It's moved from my chest to my head and back again, multiple times. But, through it all, I've still been able to sing.

This morning, I woke up with nothing above the C above middle C. Again, my heart fell but I dressed and went to church anyway. I couldn't sing the warm-up scales, the yawn-sighs, nothing. We were singing a Tschesnokoff piece this morning, one where the sopranos enter floating above the other parts. The other piece had high As, usually so easy and fun for me. I wasn't sure I'd be able to sing any of it. People didn't recognize my voice, it was so low. That's not a good sign, particularly as a section leader.

We started to rehearse. I popped yet one more cough drop (seriously, can you have too many cough drops?). And the notes came, hesitantly and quietly but they were there. And then I saw him, wearing bright blue board shorts and the newest No Pity scarf from the Timbers Army. I believe his name is Aaron. He visited the church on Easter as well (one of our pastors wrote beautifully about that here). He appeared to be chatting with an older member who always arrives early and sits near the front, perhaps to listen to the rehearsal.

We began singing the Tschesnokoff and as the sound grew, layer upon layer, he turned to face us. As we crescendoed, his arms raised up to capture all the sound in his embrace. When we sang the final alleluia, his head bowed and he clasped his hands as if in prayer.

"Let Thy holy presence come upon us."

One of our pastors sat down with him for a while and then walked with him up the center aisle. We began singing Ubi Caritas. They paused in the narthex. We came to the phrase, "Gaudium immensum est." The high As, the full chords, the immense joy. His arms raised again, ending this time in a hug with the pastor.

Gaudium immensum est.

He left before the service began but the joy I felt in singing, singing to God, singing to Aaron and seeing that joy reflected back, that stayed with me. I will not be able to sing either of those two pieces again without seeing, in my mind's eye, Aaron's beaming smile and outstretched arms and hands, trying to absorb it all in.

I sang beyond my power this morning. I sang for God and I sang for Aaron.

Gaudium immensum est.


Lord, Make Me an Instrument

"later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere."

~ Warsan Shire

Sometimes, it is all too much. There is too much pain and death and hurt. Too many places torn apart by violence. Too many families fleeing for their lives. Too many who are threatened because of the color of their skin, who they are, who they love. There is too much for one person to handle, too much to take on.

Right now, all I can do is silently cry and pray for the world as I listen to a friend play Faure's Pie Jesu on his trumpet, while stroking the soft ears of my dog, who really doesn't know what is going on but knows that I am sad.

At times like this, I turn to music. I love to sing but at times like this, I can't always sing out loud. The pain and emotion becomes too much and I choke on the grief and the tears. I have to settle to listening to others express my feelings and singing the words in my heart.

That is not to say that I am silenced. No, it is merely a pause before I come in, stronger than before. It is singing into the rest. It is an energized rest. And while I rest, others are singing, praying, doing, waiting for me to join them.

So, what is my next note, my next phrase? Well, as Anne Lamott wrote today, I'll do the next right thing. I'll clean my home, I'll finish my gift for the newest baby in our family. I'll listen to Lauridsen's Lux Aeterna, I'll pickup litter in my neighborhood and help clear a storm drain. I'll send what support I can to those helping refugees, I'll pray for friends going through difficult times and pray for Paris and Lebanon and Syria and those affected by earthquakes in Japan. I'll pray for peace, for the whole world. I'll walk my dog, I'll breathe into the rest and I'll come back in, singing.

Don't Try So Hard and Maybe You'll Do Your Best

Last Sunday, I finished my fourth marathon. I had very few hopes for completing it within the timeframe I wanted. Earlier in the summer, right about when I was to start ramping up my training for the marathon, I fell.

See the gash on my knee? Yeah, that hurt.

Actually, I tripped.

Walking.

Up stairs.

Along with a bruised ego, I scraped a healthy amount of skin off my left knee and managed to twist my right foot. I spent that evening in urgent care and got to ride in a wheel chair (not as fun as the nine-year-old in side me thinks it should be). Nothing was broken but I couldn't run for a while. It was difficult to even walk for a while. This delayed everything.

Running a marathon is a commitment. Running a marathon slowly is even more of a commitment. When you are a slow runner, it takes a long time to rack up the necessary mileage and more than one Saturday run was hijacked by oversleeping and hot midday weather (Portland had one of their hottest summers on record). I don't mind doing a couple of miles in 80 or 90 degree weather but when it takes you 3+ hours to run 15 miles, you avoid the heat. Which means you need to start running by 5 am. And, as a result, I never got my really long runs done.

I did manage to complete two 10+ mile runs a few weeks before the marathon; one was very disappointing and the other not so disappointing but I still didn't have high hopes for my time. My main goal was to finish in less than 6 hours, which seemed doable but still hard. If I could, I was going to try for a 12 minute mile pace for as long as I could. Again, doable but hard, given my lack of training. The main thing was to finish and not start too fast.

So, when I looked at my watch at mile 5 and my time was about 55 minutes, I thought I had started my watch at the wrong time (except that I remembered very clearly starting it as I ran across the first mat). Then I thought, "It's race day nerves and adrenaline, it will even out, I'll slow down eventually. Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2." But I also felt good. Really good, like I could keep that pace forever.

Between miles 7 and 10, I was running an out-and-back portion of the course and I was keeping my eyes peeled for a friend that I knew was running the half. This friend is faster than me and had started before me but I was hoping to see her while I was on the out portion and she was on the back portion. And I did see her, fairly close to the turnaround and it was unexpected but I didn't think too much about it until I passed the 10 mile mark and checked my watch again. I was under 2 hours and still feeling good. And I thought, "Good pace, doing great. But now we'll start climbing into Northwest and then comes Highway 30 and the St. Johns Bridge. You'll slow down; just don't push too hard."

"Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2."

Mile 15, under 3 hours, just. What is going on?! How am I keeping this pace? It still feels good. Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2." St. Johns Bridge, the great equalizer (I've only managed to run up it once; this time, I made it half-way before I had to walk. Almost everyone walks part of it). Mile 20, just over 4 hours.

"Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2."

 My walk breaks started to get longer but I was still blowing past all of my previous records. My legs still felt good although my feet hurt and I was pretty confident I was developing a blister on my left big toe (oh, boy did I develop a blister!). I jogged down Greeley and walked up Interstate. Up and over Broadway Bridge. Mile 25, I had finally slowed down but I was still 15-20 minutes ahead of what I had planned with my parents (they saw me pass at about 5.2 miles and went to church and then were planning on seeing me at just after Mile 25). I had to text them to tell them to just meet me at the finish. Put the phone away and started jogging towards the finish. Mile 26, almost there, could walk the rest of the way and still PR but I gotta finish strong.

I discovered I was an athlete when I discovered rowing and one of the things I learned in rowing is you leave it all on the water. You pass that 250 meter mark (or if you have an inexperienced coxswain, 750 meter mark) and you sprint until you think your arms are going to fall off and your heart is going to jump out of your chest. And that is how I finish races. I dig deep, I lift my knees, I pump my arms, I make funny faces and my breathing changes and I sprint.

"Breathe-1-2, exhale -1-2."

I passed 5 people, right at the end. I wobbled my way through the finish area. I was in some pain (mostly that darn blister), and my equilibrium was off, which made walking a straight line kind of hard. I looked at my watch. 5:24.23. Wait, what?!

5 hours, 24 minutes and 23 seconds!

I beat my previous best time by 11 minutes! The marathon that was supposed to be my slowest ended up being my fastest.

Freshly showered and already planning my next one!

Sometimes, we try too hard, we over compensate and we pressure ourselves to be perfect. To run our fastest, be our smartest, our prettiest, our thinnest, our bestest and we fail because we've put too much pressure on ourselves. Too much emphasis on what others think or what we think others think. And I don't know about you but I don't do well under too much pressure. Hard work is needed to get us to the starting point and it's hard work getting to the finish line but, in between, relax, brush it off, don't try so hard and maybe, with the pressure off, you'll do your very best.

After all, the real goal is to finish well for you. Everything else is gravy (yummy delicious gravy on top of fries and cheese curds. Okay, I just made myself hungry for poutine. Sorry about that). Don't let other people dictate what your finish is because you're stronger and faster than you think.

Just don't forget to breathe.

With Strength and Dignity

Growing up, my elementary school had an annual field day. The entire school was split into color-coded teams, mixing all grades (I was always on the Orange Bad News Bears). I hated it, field day was my least favorite day of the year and it may also account for my mild dislike of orange. I wasn't good at any of the events. I couldn't run fast enough, I couldn't jump-rope long enough, I couldn't throw a ball far enough. I did win the softball throw one year... because I was the only girl in my class who entered the event; it never really felt like a victory. Usually, I just got the "participation" points. But this post isn't about Field Day.

My senior year of high school, my class went to the Philippines for our class trip. Before going, someone who had worked and lived in Manila came and talked to us about what to expect and how to stay safe. We were warned to keep close track of our wallets and not wander off at night and not to give money to any people on the streets. We were warned that street children might pick our pockets or were fronts for gangs or Faganesque groups. And we saw people everywhere and there were children, so young and obviously in need, lurking by every mega-mall entrance, with jasmine wreaths to sell, for so little. But this post isn't about that trip.

Soon after returning from the Philippines, we were encouraged to submit writings about our experiences to the school newspaper. I wrote a poem and submitted it. It wasn't the best poem but it wasn't the worst. I tried to capture some of my conflicted feelings from the trip. The editor thought it needed explaining which, truth be told, annoyed me quite a bit. I thought part of the beauty of poetry was in discovering the meaning on your own. It also fed worries and insecurities that no one else would understand what I was trying to say, that my writing wasn't any good (insecurities that persist to this day).

Shortly after the newspaper was printed, Field Day came around. Traditionally, the seniors helped out with Field Day but earlier in the year, they had decided they wouldn't need our help. I was overjoyed that I wouldn't have to help out and relive unhappy childhood memories. Unfortunately, a few days before Field Day was to happen, they decided they needed our help after all. Our PE coach let us know that we would be needed but, knowing how much I disliked it, he had arranged for me to help at the score table, rather than any of the events.

While working the score table, one of the mothers approached me. She and her husband were new to our community. She introduced herself, explaining that she had sought me out because she and her husband were from the Philippines and she wanted to thank me for the poem that I had written. She understood exactly what I had been trying to say and she wanted to make sure I knew that it had touched someone, that someone understood. I don't think I ever talked to her again after that but it's one of those things that I've held in my heart all these years.

And that's what this post, this long, rambling post is about. Because the woman who introduced herself to me, who encouraged me so long ago is named Bola Taylor and Bola Taylor is dying of cancer. She is dying with grace and humor and courage. I've seen bits and pieces, here and there on Facebook through friends' walls, pictures and posts and it is beautiful and sad to see. And I can't imagine what her family and friends are going through. And I wanted to say thank you, Bola, from one stranger to another, before it was too late. Thank you for your encouragement so long ago, thank you for your grace and hope and belief and witness over the past few months. I know that whatever happens, you made a difference, you will continue to make a difference. You remind me of one of my favorite Bible verses, "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at days to come."

All I can really say is thank you.

Update: Bola Taylor died early in the morning of October 19 in Tokyo. Rest in peace, Bola.

Lessons Learned from Zoolights

Year 1: Bring the stroller. That adorable little baby, the one all snuggled in your arms, about the size of a football and twice as heavy? Yeah, wait an hour or two walking around a zoo and your arms will be ready to fall off. As much of a hassle as it is to bring the stroller, if you want to be able to move the next day, it's worth it. Oh, and you are unlikely to get any good photos...

Year 2: Stroller, check. Forgot rope to strap the child in. It's like driving a grocery cart with a bad wheel. The whole thing keeps veering to the right.

Year 3: If contemplating taking more than one child and second child is an infant, leave the infant at home. They can wait one more year; they wouldn't remember anyway. And then, if Big Curl has a fit of the dramatics because she's walked more miles than a toddler should and her rain boot just fell off, you can focus entirely on her and getting that boot back on her foot.

Year 4: Make sure you go to the bathroom before dinner. Can't leave Little Curl by herself. Can't leave the purse. Leave the jackets and pray they won't clear your food while you are wrangling two little girls into the handicapped stall of the women's restroom and then preventing one from sitting on the floor while helping the other use the bathroom. Oh, and did I mention, the bathroom is outside the restaurant?

Year 5: Check that you are not going on BOGO night. And then check again. Overflow parking a highway exit away, long line for the shuttle bus, long line to buy tickets, line for the bathroom (I learned my lesson last year, always go to the bathroom first), the restaurant we usually eat at is closed for a private event (who has a private event on BOGO night, shutting down one of the few places to go inside and get warm? I'll give you a hint... Intel), long line for the Zooliner. Skipping the train in favor of food, another cafe closed, last option open (Hallelujah!), animal straws bought as prizes for good behavior, leaving the restaurant only to hear the park is closing in 30 minutes. No animals seen (not surprising, it was cold), illuminated necklaces bought as reimbursement for no train or animals, only to manage to get on the second to last train of the night. And then worrying that we are too late for the shuttle back to the car.

You still won't get good photos...

Bonus Lesson: Every year (including this one), Big Curl tells me it's the best time she's ever had at Zoolights. And this year, Little Curl gave me the biggest hug ever as I carried her from the car to the house. Every year, something goes wrong and every year our Zoolights trip is a rousing success.

But I am never, EVER taking the Curls on BOGO night again.

Silence

"Silence. That's what I'll remember: The blinds stopped shaking and banging into the windows of my classroom. The TVs hanging from the ceiling over my head stopped 'dancing'. The 65 kids in the choir all held their breath in the seconds following the horrible shaking. No voice (I was wearing a body mic because I had severe laryngitis).

Silence. A school is never silent.

Once we were outside on the field: No trains. Those trains we see multiple times an hour running right beside our campus...they run so often we aren't aware of them...until they stop.

Silence. Nothing spells disruption or disaster in Tokyo like 'no trains'."

Today is the third anniversary of the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami. Starting midday on March 10, my Facebook newsfeed began to fill with remembrances of March 11, 2011; requests for prayer, for continuing help and hope; reminders that while the world has moved on to the next tragedy, the next war, the next news story, some of us have not. Some of us will never forget, just as some will never forget Aceh or Newtown or Syria or Ukraine or Venezuela or Katrina or 9/11 or the too many other places and tragedies and wars to even mention. One person can not remember them all but each of us makes a connection to something and we remember it and that is important.

One way I choose to remember is to make sure I am prepared (as well as can be) for disaster. In Japan, September 1 is National Disaster Prevention Day (the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923 happened on September 1; schools observe a moment of silence and nationwide earthquake drills are held). For me, my Disaster Prevention Day is March 11. I use the day to go through my emergency kit and replace any food that needs replacing. Last year, I finally bought a hand-crank radio. I've got a first aid kit, a backpack with food and clothes that I can grab at a moment's notice. I've got dog food and people food, an emergency blanket and a can opener (really important). I still have things I need to put together, like an emergency kit for work. Some people tease me for my "paranoia" but I would rather be prepared than have to walk home six miles in heels. I'd rather be prepared than wonder, how do I get to my family, where do we meet up. Shortly after the Tohoku earthquake, I remember reading some (ignorant) comment about "why bother being prepared? Japan was prepared and it wasn't enough." Japan's preparation might not have been enough to prevent everything but as bad as it was, think of how much worse it could have been. You only have to look at the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami where there were no plans in place and hundreds of thousands of lives were lost.  Almost 20,000 lives were lost in Japan but how many lives were saved because there were plans in place, plans that people knew and followed.

Koji Sasahara - AP

The quote at the start of this post is from my mother, her memory of the moments right after the ground stopped shaking long enough to evacuate the building. And it is true, nothing spells disruption in Tokyo like no trains. One of the specific images from three years ago that continues to stick with me (besides the countless photos of terrible devastation and loss) is of office workers in Tokyo walking home on the tracks of an elevated train. That is the only way they know to get home and with the power out, for once, there was no danger of being hit by a train. And when your world has been shaken beyond recognition, you just want to go home. It's an image akin to that of the workforce of New York, walking across the bridges after the attacks on the Twin Towers. They just want to get home.

And, as I look at before and the most recent after photos of the Tohoku region, I can see rebuilding happening but not a lot of home building. There is still so much to be done in Tohoku and they are starting to see unexpected effects. Children in areas surrounding Fukushima don't know what it is like to play outside and it's starting to affect their health and development. Hundreds of thousands in Tohoku are displaced and still living in temporary housing (houses that, size-wise, make FEMA trailers look palatial). So, please, continue to pray for Japan, for the rebuilding, for people to be able to go home.

Don't let the memory fade away into silence.

An Open Love Letter

Some Thoughts in Honor of the Multnomah County Library's 150th Year

The door swings heavy,
Solid wood,
Clear glass,
Mottled glass and rattling,
So many different doors but all lead to the same.
Library, sanctuary, help, escape, these you have been to me.

Each is different, yet each is the same.
The quiet of research, the clamor of story time.
A wall of shelves in a hidden corner,
A grand building of marble and authors.

The smell of wool
Dampened by rain.
Humanity,
In varying degrees of unwash.
Outside cares and inside woes,
All fade away when confronted by the intoxicating perfume of books.

Musty, dusty,
New and old.
Hardcovers with their crinkly cellophane wrappers,
Paperbacks with contact paper protectors.
Adventure and history,
Love and suspense,
Mystery and drama,
Limited only by the span of my arms (and the size of my overdue fines).

I stand, reading.
I sit on the floor, reading.
I would loll about, reading,
If I could,
If the librarian would let me.

O, the librarian.
Friend,
Confidante,
Disciplinarian,
Conspirator,
Upside-down reader
And right-side up thinker.

All this to say,
I love libraries,
Be they small, middlin' or large,
New or 150 years young.