Twenty-one, Or So

“I have plenty of stuff here that can be used. Whenever you have time to look at it. No big rush”.

Another message. Another twenty-one, or so, words gratefully left on my voicemail Friday. I don’t interpret these words to mean anything other than dad reaching out for verbal companionship – for a connection. Words, themselves, don’t really matter.

(As aside here, I didn’t really listen to him – or anyone – as a teenager, anyway, …. but let’s not let that get in the way here. 😃)

These words don’t matter. His intention does. His need for a momentary connection to his son – even if it was in a thirty-second voicemail – counts a lot in his life. And mine. I want him to hear my voice … in person, or recorded. He needs this.

As I’ve written before, it’s difficult for me to answer most times. Life is, well, busy. None of us who are on the forefront of caregiving can set aside our schedules. We want to, but can’t. Even if I had all the time and money available at my over-extended fingertips, it wouldn’t be healthy to commit 100%, anyway. The emotional balancing act in which we engage is challenging. Rewarding, yes. Tiring, yes.

Following each call – answered or voicemail – I do try to see him within the next twelve hours +/-. Not always possible, of course. A good percentage of time my schedule allows it – which leaves a small “bad” percentage.

Thus, that message Friday, sadly. It’s Sunday morning and I felt the “no big rush” empty hours creep into my life last night. Before Saturday’s church service, an unsettled hush occupied my mind. An urgency to see dad without the time to follow-up took the place of prelude preparation and sanctuary service. Granted, this was over an hour before because I arrive early to help open the church. Yet, this didn’t lessen the malaise I felt…

… Initially. I write, “Initially”, because within five minutes of entering through our side doors, my ears caught a very familiar voice coming from our fellowship hall. An elderly, tenor male voice echoing around our large gathering hall was easily recognized as one of Zion’s recently retired clergy. Sitting as a dedicated grandfather … dutifully watching over playful grandchildren was his job at that moment. Neither of us realized another task was at hand.

A casual, “Hello, usually nobody is here …”, turned into much needed twenty-one, or so, minutes gratefully exchanged between old friends as I was the organist/pianist during his long and rewarding tenure at Zion.

“It was nice to see your dad last weekend in church”, began this wonderful conversation between friends. An observation warranted because Pastor Scott attends regularly with his family.

“Yeah. I felt it was a good idea to bring him to late service … and then see if he had enough energy to go to our church picnic afterwards.”

A larger door opened at that point. Not one to the church. One to my conversational soul. One that isn’t opened very often, surprisingly. (Although, I do talk to others on occasion including the current pastor, secretary, and a few good friends).

So many ask about dad – how he’s doing. The, “what’s going on with him?” umbrella-in-passing kinda query. I don’t mind, but a quick, “he’s fine” seems to satisfy questioners as they move on with their lives. I get it. I don’t hold anything against anyone. Lives move and gears grind in the engines of every one’s schedules, families, and jobs.

There was something different with Pastor Scott’s words. Granted, he’s a pastor. With that comes a certain expectation of compassion. This wasn’t it. It was just a normal guy – a good friend sincerely asking about my dad.

… so we talked and laughed. Life as it is in this net of dad’s dementia. No advice given. “It must be difficult for your dad to manage what’s going on inside his brain”. “I think it is?”, was my hesitant reply as I am not sure what path ideas take inside a person’s brain who has dementia. As someone who knows dad, he continued, “I guess he feels comfortable in his own way and is, at least, trying to manage”.

“Yes, he is”, I candidly replied.

This comforting dialog continued for another twenty minutes. Life between a dad and son through the consoling and sympathetic casually dressed clerical collar of a retired pastor. Benevolent brotherhood at it’s best. I could only image dad sitting off in the near distance nodding in agreement as friendly phrases graced my ears. Almost like dad was saying, “It’s ok. No big rush. Believe me. No big rush”, through the words Pastor Scott was speaking.

I didn’t expect to be playing my prelude last night with light-heartedness when arriving over an hour prior. That time with Pastor Scott provided an unexpected education. This journey with dad isn’t about one-way messages on an answering machine. It’s not even only two-way conversations when I am actually able to answer the phone, or take dad somewhere for a treat.

We can bring others into the conversation to help more often. To untangle the net. To help straighten out the bent thoughts and crooked, confusing conversations between a caregiver and “patient”…

It IS an opportunity to allow myself, and others going through this, to be brave enough to ask for specific help – to open up for conversation. Allow follow-ups when the, “What’s going on with your dad?”, questions appear unexpectedly. “Do you have a minute to talk?… I have a few concerns.”, wouldn’t be a bad thing once in a while if the timing is appropriate.

Who knows? Laughter and meaningful dialog may happen?

After nearly three times twenty-one, or so years of my life, it’s still hard not to do everything myself. If this journey with dad is teaching me one thing, stopping to learn, laugh, and listen to another person is a good thing.

Dad would be happy to know I am learning this lesson, finally.

Enjoying the Fine Line

This is a wonderful arrangement of, “How Great Thou Art”. Mark Hayes has to be one of my favorite writers / composers of piano music. His ability to transfer musical ideas into playable, albeit moderate to advanced, finger-fun keyboard merriment is nearly unmatched. I search out his works. My library is stuffed full of well-creased, loosely stapled, worn arrangements accredited to his exceptional musicianship.

These books are of a religious persuasion, of course. I guess I need to say this. From every season of faith, he extracts melodies, harmonies, and rhythms appropriate for services from traditional to contemporary. Pentecostal to Brethren to Lutheran to Catholic… and beyond. Really, any gathering focused on a sensibility beyond our daily go-get ’em grind, … our yo-yo self schedule of daily ups and downs … is a good suit to fit on his body of music.

Specifically for me as an organist/pianist … any weekend collection of human worshipers inside a sanctuary wears well. I thoroughly enjoy the space I occupy behind any keyboard requiring my presence. Mark Hayes isn’t the only partner with me, of course, but on a most recent occasion … he was.

Thus the “Fine Line” of which I write.

The arrangement above is, well, so much fun to play. I’ve had it “under my fingers” a long time. As solo piano hymn music goes, it probably qualifies as “advanced” with some tricky octave passages, “showy” broken chord cadenza-type measures, and nice flowery arpeggios. To the non-music people, let’s just say, “a lot of fluff”. If a hymnal was opened to, “How Great Thou Art”, singing along with Mr. Hayes’ version wouldn’t be possible without a little imagination …

I played this as a Prelude. Here’s the “Fine Line”. It was an emotional dance played mentally in my head – even as notes began their arc into the sanctuary space. (By the way, not just with this piece, but with others as well). “Is this appropriate? Should a wonderful piece like this be played as a vessel to help congregants focus? Or, are they really listening, anyway? Is this about me, or their needs? Am I doing this just for my enjoyment as an artist? Why am I even concerned … Just play it and move on to the rest of the service”.

These, and other similar second-guessing, time consuming, energy draining, brain drain thoughts circle around and around … before, during, and after.

Problem is … I simply enjoy playing. Period.

All the arrangements I have … and there’s a generational ton going back through my grandmother and mother … are literally at my fingertips. Classical, romantic, baroque, modern, Christian. Over the decades, I’ve used them all. Funerals, weddings, solo recitals, special music events, a lot of specific services, accompanying soloists, and on… it’s almost always a question, for me, of appropriateness. What music fits the occasion, … the audience.

And the congregation as well.

They are not an audience; however, when I play a piece like “How Great”, an unimagical, unfantastical transformation happens before my very imagination. This wonderful “fluff” becomes a show piece I never intended it to be … converting a congregation of worshipers into an audience.

I know. I know. It’s what happens in my gray matter. Nobody, I repeat, nobody has ever mentioned a thing. I, alone, have created this hurricane of hazy hymnody.

It’s the fine line of what is, and is not, appropriate.

Even after decades of doing the dance, enjoying this line is a challenge. Play what’s not exciting or an arrangement I don’t find particulary engaging – to appease a prelude space? Or, fill that time with something intriguing to hear, play, and engage everyone’s aural senses, but risk tilting that imaginary spotlight in my direction?

There’s no real answer here. I suppose if I wore my black speckled rhinestone jacket, then someone “may” say a word, or two, to our Pastor. An 1970’s electronic color wheel on the organ could work, probably? For a minute – at least, or until an usher unplugged it. Small, dancing scarfs? A tall piano hat? Elton John glasses? These would be, clearly, an issue. Cause for a ministerial meeting, a personal pastoral interventional inquest.

The beauty in all of this? Music speaks so many languages to so many people. I’ve learned these tiny dots on a manuscript, regardless of what I play, do mean something to someone. On balance, my selections are varied. It’s my own personality creeping in when arrangements of this level present themselves on my music rack.

Heck, I’m just one piano player who worries more than I should. Ten fingers, eighty-eight keys and endless combinations of melodious merriment should be enough for me.

If only my fingers weren’t connected to a brain over-thinking too much instead of just enjoying the “Fine Line” I’ve created for myself.

It’s being human. It’s being a musician, maybe. It’s being alive at the same time as Mark Hayes and being massaged with his genius every time I open one of his books. He’d probably tell me to let the music speak for itself and don’t worry about anything else.

I’ll try to do better with all of it, Mark. My words … and my personal prelude piano problem.

Promise.

The Fabric of Life

A dusting of snow. On the other side of those beautiful blue stained glass windows lies white late-March flakes. It was a cold, short trip to church this morning. Dad and I made the second of three car rides an hour ago. Last night, during Saturday service, we had an inkling today was bringing the snow-stuff. Next service at 10:45? More of the same.

Dad will, dutifully, attend. I must, as the organist on staff, sit on the keyboard benches as well. “Must” is too harsh. I so thoroughly enjoy my keyboard acts of paid generosity at Zion Lutheran. This time is a fold-into world where I can live without judgement of myself and share a talent with others. Prelude, hymns, liturgy, preludes, kyrie, and sanctus … all are part of sharing a belief so important to the faith life in the hearts of members.

We arrived early – as is custom. Nobody other than the Pastor and us grace this space prior to ten minutes ’til. The air was, predictably, still. Silence prevailed save a few rustling papers at the end of Pastor Dave’s fingers in the pulpit as he organized his thoughts. I organized the organ while whispering among the wisp of music sitting on the rack. All is prepared worship.

After all was done, dad found his way forward to the front pew. Something unique caught my morning, still awakening, eyes. Unknowingly, he and I nicely connected our attired tastes. Matching black dress pants and decorative gray blazers adorned our generationally partitioned selves.

We chuckled. It was nice to laugh with dad. A connection that held together the fabric that is a relationship between a son and father was wonderful to experience. Additionally, he agreed to a picture. Special.

We separated soon after the picture was taken.

A few dozen parishoners came in, the silence was broken with shuffling bulletin bending, and service life began. Dad didn’t light the alter candles as I began the prelude. Another held that responsibility tightly and tapered it nicely into her life. He didn’t seen to mind as the last pew accepted him into his normal, comfortable spot.

I will remember the photo for a while. These are moments a father and son don’t get too often. He agreed, which is, normally, outside his capacity of comfort. When I said, “Check it out, dad. We’re looking good together. Black and gray … both of us!”. He happily replied, “Yeah, this is interesting”.

“I want to take a picture, what do you think?”

“Ok”

In the effort to take the picture, he was careful to help me get it right. Now, taking a “selfie” one-handed to make sure the pants AND blazers appear is a pretty difficult task. Dad and I laughed our way through the process.

We finally decided, “What they see is what they get…”.

… and I wholeheartily agreed.

What I got was a wonderful few moments with my dad. We may not be alike in a lot of ways, but in the overall fabric of our lives together now, we are alike. We share humor when we can, frustrations when available, friends and family when they are around. As of this post, ninety-five Facebook friends have responded in love and friendship to the above picture.

There may not be too many snowy days ahead for us … or, we could have a decade plus. Who knows? For today, a day to celebrate what would have been a birthday of a special person in our life together, I will take a few minutes with dad.

Family truly is the fabric of life.