A Flood of Music

The groundhog was drenched and huddled on a broken piece of lumber that was wedged in some sticks on the edge of the flood driven waterfall. The poor creature shivered, its soaked matted hair dripping. It clung to the small plank, with no escape. I watched this footage of the Owego Flood on a youtube video. Then the scene switched to nearby railroad tracks, which were as far as the flood waters rose. The groundhog stood somewhat dazed, but alive, on the tracks.
"We saved this little guy, " said the caption, on the video.

"How's the flood patrol?" I texted my brother, who was still ensconced in his flood zone home. It would still be a month before his family would be able to return, but he would not leave it to be robbed or violated any further than the flood itself had done.
"Great! We have heat, water, and electricity now!"
"Hooray!"
"And I got three Stakmore tables!"
"How many people did you have to kill?"
"None! I just sweet talked the nice lady at the Stakmore factory. Christmas came early to Owego!"
"Did you get enough chairs for them all?"
"No...  :( "
"Well, I suspect with residents returning your prime looting days are over."
"Yeh, probably. You know, truth be told, we made out like bandits on this flood."
"Yeh, if it weren't for that $100,000 deductible on your flood insurance...."
"Well, it's only money.  We can make more of that. You know it is the love of money that is the root of all evil...not just having money."
"So I've heard...I wouldn't know from personal experience."

I thought of the video John had sent me. His son, Greg and he had gone wandering the flood receding streets, where piles of belongings were strewn on every curb. Then he passed a piano. John stopped as Greg filmed. John began playing simple tunes on the water damaged piano, battered and ruined, dumped on the street of the flooded city. It didn't sound as awful as you might think. In fact, it was a victorious melody, of sorts. A car slowed, stopped, and honked, waving a fist. The video closed with John laughing, and waving at his new comrade, forged in the wake of disaster.

Those two images kept popping up in my head all day- the shivering groundhog clinging to a plank while water raged around him, and my brother playing the ruined piano. I wondered how the groundhog had been saved. The water was rushing violently around him, on the edge of a waterfall. I can't imagine he was saved without some risk to his savior. I think Salvation always involves danger, and suffering for the Savior. It must have seemed  like pretty grim chances of survival to the groundhog.  As soon as he dried out, lifted miraculously from the flood, he would have two choices. He could cry out in anger to the world that had so suddenly shifted beneath him and allowed a flood to carry him so far from his comfortable place...or he could play a metaphorical piano, lifting a melody of comfort and gratitude to a species not accustomed to music in a flood.

Psalm 6 : 1-9

 ¹ LORD, do not rebuke me in your anger
   or discipline me in your wrath.
² Have mercy on me, LORD, for I am faint;
   heal me, LORD, for my bones are in agony.
³ My soul is in deep anguish.
   How long, LORD, how long?
 ⁴ Turn, LORD, and deliver me;
   save me because of your unfailing love.
⁵ Among the dead no one proclaims your name.
   Who praises you from the grave?
 ⁶ I am worn out from my groaning.
   All night long I flood my bed with weeping
   and drench my couch with tears.
⁷ My eyes grow weak with sorrow;
   they fail because of all my foes.
 ⁸ Away from me, all you who do evil,
   for the LORD has heard my weeping.
⁹ The LORD has heard my cry for mercy;
   the LORD accepts my prayer.

When the Music Starts

There is a magnificent pipe organ that fills an entire wall of the megachurch in Charlotte. Most of the time, that huge organ is silent. We have visited that church often, and only once did I hear the pipe organ. The richness of the tones that rolled out of the stunning pipes would have shattered the 3-story floor to ceiling glass if the sound people were not more adept. The organist we heard was a professional who tours with a brass group and he was spectacular. There are at least 5 keyboards on the oversized organ, and the organist was playing all of them while the pipes bellowed. When one speaks in such a manner, one can afford to be silent for most of the time.

We had a spate of good news this week. My second oldest son, who just got married, also just found out that he was admitted to Law Review. This is a tremendous honor and highly competitive. He had spent the month before his wedding taking his first year law school finals, starting his first law internship, his first full time work week, and writing a twenty page rigorous paper to vie for acceptance to Law Review. I don't know how he survived that month. But not only did he survive, somehow he thrived. And snagged me the world's best daughter in law in the process.

And then yesterday we found out that our oldest son just sold his start up business KSplice to Oracle. In the computing world, Oracle is huge....and this rocketed my son way out of starving entrepreneur status. I knew he had Bill Gates potential....but now he is on the way to Bill Gates status.

My boys are quiet. All my kids are, especially my oldest. I process thoughts by speaking, or writing. Not my children. I rarely hear from the oldest, though he usually manages to pass on the critical information when we need to hear it. I thought about their verbal reticence. When one has magnificent talent, one can afford to be quiet for long stretches....like the pipe organ. But when the music does start, oh my, how it fills the air!

Ecclesiastes 5:6-8

⁶ Do not let your mouth lead you into sin. And do not protest to the temple messenger, “My vow was a mistake.” Why should God be angry at what you say and destroy the work of your hands? ⁷ Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore fear God.

A Home

When I called Comer to tell him I would be picking him and Evelyn up for lunch from their wonderful new Assisted Living/Alzheimer home, he said she was having a very bad day. She had fallen the day before they moved, and while xrays showed no breaks, her hip was very sore, and she was "a mess".
"She's crying and won't settle.... we can't go anywhere today. She couldn't make it to the car! She's doing very poorly."
I looked sadly at the plateful of deviled eggs I had prepared for her, the vase of roses I had picked from the tree Comer had planted 12 years ago, the music CD filled with songs from the 40s.
"Shall I come visit anyway?" I asked, "I won't stay long, but I have deviled eggs and music for her."
"That would be so nice," he said.

I had not yet seen this new facility. It looked like an old victorian style home. Old black and white shows from my childhood were on the television in the living room. French doors opened onto beautiful gardens with benches lining the paths. The hallways had dress stands with long wedding gowns and dresses from a time when cars were ticketed for exceeding 10 mph.  As Comer led me towards Evelyn's room, I glanced at a kitchen area with a big table, and some residents sat watching an aide whisk a mixture in a bowl. It smelled lemony. I saw Evelyn painfully shuffling towards the table.

"Evelyn!" I said, "Hello! I brought you deviled eggs made with my secret recipe!"
She looked up and smiled, "Oh good!"
The whisk quieted and two other aides came and stood near.
"Well?" they said,"We want to hear this secret ingredient."
"Here, try one and see if you can figure it out."
Evelyn popped one in her mouth, followed quickly by another.
"Can you tell what my secret ingredient is?"
"mmfssspghwpppp," she said, enjoying her third deviled egg.

"What are you making?" I asked the whisking aide.
"Lemon cake, from scratch."
"Are you following a recipe?"
"Oh no," she giggled, "I just hope it works....."
We all sat around the table as the sounds and smells of cake making oozed like comfort around us. This was a home that was truly recreating a home for these old folk.
"Look!" said the aide, pointing to the glass oven door, "It's rising!"
"Good for you! What other kinds of cakes can you make without a box?"
"Carrot cake."
"Oh, I love carrot cake."
"I do too," said Evelyn between bites of egg.

I held up the CD.
"Music, Evelyn!" and called out some of the song titles. She sang the first line from each one as I called out the name, both of us laughing with delight at her perfect recall. The lady next to Evelyn watched us mutely, but smiled. I asked her if she wanted a deviled egg. She didn't seem to quite know how to respond so I brought her one and helped her clasp her fingers around it. She held it uncertainly.
"You can eat it," I urged, "It has a secret ingredient. See if you can tell what it is."
The lady smiled and brought it to her mouth.

Evelyn was still humming the last song I had called out.
"Here," said an aide, reaching for the CD "Shall I put it on the CD player ?"
She turned on the music while I gave away my deviled egg secret ingredient.

Later, Comer led us both to Evelyn's room. Her sunny window looked out over grass and trees. She sat in her chair, and I taught Comer how to operate the CD player Kristin had brought. Evelyn looked on with studious interest and said, "Oh I see."
"So now you can have music whenever you want," I told her.
"Oh how nice!" she said, with a happy laugh.
Comer stared at her shaking his head.
"This is night and day how she was earlier!" he said baffled.
"I prayed on the way over," I said.
He cocked his head and pointed a finger at me, with a knowing nod and grin.
"And the music. You know how they say music soothes the savage beast."
Evelyn chuckled, "It does!"

As I left them, sitting side by side, eating deviled eggs and listening to "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime", a nurse from Comer's floor saw me.
"How was Comer's wife?" she asked.
"Oh much better. She loves deviled eggs and music."
"Oh," said the nurse, "I'll go tell the aide to put that on her care chart right away then! We better get in a supply of deviled eggs."

Joshua 23

¹ After a long time had passed and the LORD had given Israel rest from all their enemies around them, Joshua, by then a very old man, ² summoned all Israel—their elders, leaders, judges and officials—and said to them: “I am very old. ³ You yourselves have seen everything the LORD your God has done to all these nations for your sake; it was the LORD your God who fought for you. 

Ruth 4:15
¹⁵ He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age.

Here Comes the Sun

Asherel also said, "No one is going to know you know how to draw."
"What's wrong with this?" I asked, showing her the iPod picture, "Don't you think it looks just like me?"
She just gazed silently at me.
"Well, you can't imagine how difficult it is to draw a new picture every single day," I complained.
"If you want followers, you are going to need to draw better pictures."
"This is abstract art. Besides, I am getting bored with realism."
She again looked askance at me, as though my every word were not dripping with wisdom.
"You need to talk about something new on your blog, and you need to draw better pictures or you will lose followers."

We had returned from a bikeride to CD warehouse to scout for CDs from the 40s and 50s. We intend to fill our car with music when we pick up Comer and Evelyn from the Alzheimer unit for our Thursday outing. We had found two compilation CDs of music from that era and I was excited to see if Evelyn would know the words to all those songs. While choosing the music, a salesman came over and asked if there was anything else we might like.
Asherel is always on the prowl for the Beatle movies. She has two, and wants to collect all 5 of the movies they had made. I asked the man if they had any.
"Doubtful," he told us, but led us over to where we might find them. As we stood there gazing at the rows of CDs of which not a one was a Beatles movie, he proceeded to talk about the Beatles. He looked at me as though I might know what he was talking about, the little known tidbits of knowledge.
I pointed to Asherel, "She's the one you need to talk to. She knows everything there is to know about the Beatles." (She is hoping to graduate first in her class in Beatle Studies.)
He then proceeded to try to prove me wrong. He certainly did know a lot about the Beatles, but Asherel claims she knew every thing he mentioned.
"They were my parents' era....like yours," he said, then quickly added, "Though my parents are older than you."
"Probably," I answered.
"They were born in '53," he said, "And so they grew up on the Beatles. That was what they played when I was young, so you know how in those teenage formative years, that music stays with you."
"Yes, I was just a very little girl then," I said, since I believe "very little girl" is until the age of about 25.
Then he started branching out into discussing music from every decade, and why it was so good.  I listened to very little music, outside of the old musicals, so I was mostly lost, but nodded and said "Uhhuh" at the appropriate spots.
When we left, Asherel told me she loved talking with people about that stuff. She added that I looked a little confused as he was discussing music of each decade. Nothing gets by that girl.
"I was confused," I told her, "I mean, I had heard of all the groups he talked about, but I probably couldn't name a single song of any of them. I was too busy bike riding, and finding stray animals, and working on the farm down the street. I didn't listen to music, and I never wanted to do what everyone else was doing."
I guess I am at heart, cantankerous.
"That's the good thing about being homeschooled," she said as we biked home, "I don't have to like what everyone else likes....and I don't worry about it."
I smiled. That is one of the benefits, relieving the horrible burden of peer pressure.
"But if I ever go to public school, I will be light to the world."
At least that is what I thought she said, with the wind blowing across my ear drum. For the few seconds before I clarified that statement, I thought all my struggles, my trials as a mother, as a teacher, as an example were coming to fruition. I had a child who wanted to be "light to the world." Harps began sounding in the background, and a heavenly choir began singing, "Hallelujah!"
"Asherel, that is wonderful!"
 She looked confused.
"Mom," she asked finally, "Why do you think it is wonderful that I want to Beatle-ize the world?"
"I thought you said 'Be Light to the world'."
"No. Beatle-ize the world."

I had been on one other adventure that day. Since Asherel had the day off for Spring Break, I went to hunt for sandals that would not blister my feet. I tried several stores and held my sore feet up to salesman after salesman.
"Can you help these?" I asked. None could. They tried, but all said a narrow footed, high arched, overpronated, swollen pinky toed individual such a me was a very hard customer to please. And then I went into the expensive store, the one I don't go in unless driven to the heights of despair, or lured by a "SALE!" sign. The big letters S-A-L-E called to me from 10 miles away. As I walked in, I saw row after row of high end sandals half price. I saw one that I loved, with a molded high arch, soft leather straps, and beautiful. No  way it would fit...or be in my price range. I flipped it over. It was half off. I could afford it. He brought me the shoe and I walked around. It felt like walking on pillows.
"I"ll take it!" I gushed.
Then as I was the only one in the tiny store, I asked him how he had been.
"I thought you were closing shop, going out of business. I was surprised to see you open again."
"Well, I have had to get really lean," he said, which may have explained all those half price sandals at the height of the summer sandal buying season.
"I have been dealing with my mom. She has alzheimers." His face was lined, weary, sad.
I put the shoes in the box and looked at him, "That's hard. I have a friend with Alzheimers. We have discovered that she feels much better, more normal when we play music from her era for her. She knows all the words. Have you tried that? Sometimes those old memories from music of their childhood helps."
I found out that his mom was in a home 2 hours away. He faithfully visits once a week.
"Alot of people ask me why I bother. She doesn't know me, and they tell me she doesn't care if I am there or not."
"Oh, she cares," I said, "She may not know you as her son, but she knows you as someone who is kind and is lifting the drabness of her day, doesn't she?"
He nodded.
"You know, the hardest part is my dad just died of Alzheimers 5 years ago, and then Mom was diagnosed."
He shook his head.
"That's just not fair," I said.
"No, it isn't fair."
As I paid for the shoes, I told him, "You are doing the right thing. You will never look back with regrets."
"That is exactly it," he said, "I wouldn't want to look back when she passes and feel I had neglected her."

I had suggested music to the man with a dying mother. I had bought some shoes that might help him keep his shop open. I smiled as I thought of Asherel's statement. It wasn't much, but I was Beatle-izing the world as best I could.

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter,
Little darling, it seems like years since its been here.
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun
And I say, it's all right..........

Psalm 23: 3-5
⁴ Even though I walk
   through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
   for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
   they comfort me.

He is My Song

I wish I could sing, or play an instrument other than the kazoo with skill. Every member of my family can either sing or play guitar or piano.... except me. I mean, I can play a few chords, and I can sing within a very narrow range. In fact, my ability to sing was one of the delusions of my childhood. And it was my mom's fault. As I have mentioned in prior posts, my sister Wendy was highly intelligent and highly talented. All the things I could do, Wendy could do better, and yes, that included art. I hated Wendy, which was the only way I knew to cope with all the feelings of inferiority. My mother, wisely seeing me drowning in my paucity of self esteem, tried to bolster me by focusing on the two things Wendy didn't have that I did. Everyone else in our family (except Mom) had brown eyes, but I had green eyes. My mother made such a big deal about my green eyes that I came to believe I had personally selected them and then special ordered them to arrive on the day of my birth. Were it not for my exceptional ability to procure those emerald orbs, I would have eyes like dirt like Wendy did. (I use the past tense, because in His infinite sense of humor, God gave Wendy brown eyes that faded to green with age, removing one of the two things I had that she did not.) The second thing I had over Wendy which I believe persists to this day was that I could carry a tune. As far as I know, Wendy still can not sing without bats torpedoing out of their caves. So while I honestly probably could sing better than Wendy, with all respect, the bar was not very high in that endeavor.
However, I trusted my mom and so I joined the elementary school chorus. I was put in the soprano section, but I don't think it was really that I was a soprano. I think it was just that since I was such a shy and frightened child when placed before humans, whenever I sang to anyone but myself in the shower, my vocal cords constricted and the squeak that emerged was labeled the closest thing the choir teacher could compare it to. I huddled with the other sopranos.
Despite my debilitating shyness, I had moments throughout my life when I was determined to rise above my temerity. When the tryouts for the School Choir solos were announced, I had such a moment.
When I told the choir teacher I wanted to try out, she paused and said, "Are you sure?"
This may be interpreted by more astute minds as an indication that perhaps I should take up another calling, like removing lint from dryers, but I persisted.
On the day of the tryouts, we were called one by one into a small room, and we sang a verse in front of the choir director. I wore my new dress, the one I can still picture to this day with a white top, green full skirt to match the eyes I had selected, and a yellow sash. I loved that dress and I felt beautiful in it. Inexplicably, when I sang my solo, my voice didn't squeak and I remembered all the words. It was with astonishment (I am sure to the entire choir) when it was announced that I would sing the solo.
So the next month was to be spent practicing for the big event. In practice, as far as I can remember, every single time we came to the part where I was to sing in front of all my fellow choir members my one small solo, I blew it. My terrified vocal chords would take one gander at the crowd and go hide behind my tonsils.
The choir director would try to smile. There would often be shocked silence from my choir mates. How had this worm with no voice won the coveted solo?
After two weeks of this farce, the choir director announced that due to an unforeseen event, the song with my solo would have to be cut from the program. Now of course, I understand that the unforeseen event is that the soloist sang like a wounded burro, but at the time, I only felt a twinge of disappointment. Mostly I felt relief.
With age and dawning wisdom, I understand that whether I want to be a swan or not, if I am a duck, I must be satisfied with what a duck is made to do. And much as I wish I could sing with notes that have the scent of Heaven upon them, I really don't need to. God tells me that in my weakness is where He shines. What joy to read in Exodus, 15:2_

The Lord is my strength and my song;
he has become my salvation.