I wonder what this title evoked in you readers... I know my husband would sardonically think, "Allergies." The big challenge to all of our lives these days is the COVID-19 pandemic, and it's affecting us all differently. Some are busier, some are bored; some will be glad to be free of a noisy household, others are lonely. It's feast or famine. Younger folks might associate the stress of final exams or final papers with this title. Over the years, I've come to realize just how much suffering surrounds the spring holidays as well: Mother's Day, Memorial Day, and Father's Day. In my inner circle of friends and family, I've seen these "holidays" evoke memories of abandonment, infertility, death of a parent, death of a child, exhaustion from too many family obligations, disappointing relationships, chronic illness and pain, years of hurt, and in some cases, abuse. 

Memorial Day is the most obviously and unilaterally difficult. The pain is so great, even when one has the luxury of being personally removed, that we find ourselves asking why. Why must this be? No one should ever have to endure losing a son, daughter, husband, wife, father, mother, or sibling, or friend in warfare. One look at a photo of Arlington, and I'm about done for. When we consider the selflessness of this sacrifice, it is overwhelming. It's not quite so simple, but in a sense, someone died so I could have my barbecue in peace. When I meditate on this even for a moment, I feel viscerally as though my heart is bleeding and breaking.

I had this feeling as a child too, learning about Abraham and Isaac. I breezily accepted all manner of difficult stories from the Bible growing up, but this one, I remember thinking, "WHAT???" I was incredulous. What on earth might God be doing? Why play with them? It seemed so mean! There simply must be another way to test Abraham's faith. This did not seem to fit into the loving shepherd painting we had hanging in our hall. 

I've grown to the understanding that is the exact reaction we ought to have. What? NO! That is too much to ask. That is cruel and he doesn't deserve it! Isn't there another way? How horrible!

Yes. How horrible. 

If you're like me, you memorized John 3:16 as a child. I said it in a sing-songy rhythm. "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him, should not perish, but have everlasting life. John threeeee, six, teen." It became commonplace. But waking up to the complexities of adulthood and allowing the Holy Spirit's leading, the fact of God sending His only Son to take the punishment of death for you, in particular, and for me, in particular, is just too much to fathom. He didn't deserve it. It was horrible. There was no other way to save us from what we indeed deserve. And He did it out of love for you and me, willingly.

Rick and I have talked at times about shifting political alignments and associations, especially where it involves evangelical Christians and the military. One past member of his unit, an atheist, was incensed that there would be any crossover between the two, and vociferously complained about even the most general Christian reference. As someone who has never felt an interest or call to government and policy making, and as someone who is concerned with classic religious freedom as outlined by our Constitution, and not one to conflate the love of my country with a religious experience, I think the overlap is too significant to pretend it doesn't exist. No other god, tradition, or religion upholds the example of self sacrifice for others as Christ does. Other religions might focus on ethics and/or the greater good, to some extent, but at the heart, other traditions focus on simply being able to cope with the world. God calls us to more. 

On Memorial Day, we honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice. There is indeed no greater sacrifice, than for a man to lay down his life for his friends (John 15:13).

Here is a tribute by members of the U.S. Army Band, which includes the Brass Quintet and some historic footage as well.

As far as Mother's Day and Father's Day, I think some of us have had the experience that our mothers and fathers gave us our first introduction to what the love of God is. If I were to write tributes to my parents, we'd be here all day. (Although I must add that my mother always tried to get me to learn organ and conducting, to which I rebelled. Awkwardly going back now at middle age and doing what my mom told me to do in the first place... Kids, listen to your moms!)

For some of us, relationships with our parents are more complicated;  for still others, perhaps our parents' inadequacies or errors made us understand all too well that there is only one perfect Father. 

I would like to turn our attention to Henri Nouwen's discussion of the Prodigal Son story in his short book, The Return of the Prodigal Son. He outlines his own journey to the understanding that we are all both of the brothers at times, but the Father is the likeness to which we should all aspire. We are all the ones who messed up at some point; we are all frustrated and self-righteous when things seem unfair to us; but knowing and experiencing all of this, we are to mature into someone who has been well-loved by our Heavenly Father, and in turn attend to our responsibilities with grace, justice, and love. That is the whole parent gig. The young are parented, and one day, must learn to parent themselves. In so doing, we acknowledge the enormity of Christ's sacrifice for us, and rightly steward what He has given us. 

I was the biggest overachiever while I was expecting Laura--I did not have one drop of caffeine, one remotely unhealthy food, one medication... I stayed physically active, listened to (and played) Mozart, and read stories to my swelling belly. It was my joy to do so. I'd still do anything for her and her family.

For myself, I care much less. There's always tomorrow to get in shape, prioritize sleep, or start eating better. If I could see myself as the Father does, I would have to acknowledge the price at which I was bought, and start to "parent" myself through His eyes. His love is truly perfect, in the way I wanted to give it to my child. He who did not spare His only Son, but gave Him up for all, will He not with Him freely give us all things? (Rom. 8:32)

Years ago, a close friend sought counseling about a pain and frustration in her life. After many weeks of gentle counsel, the counselor said, "Another thing just to think about is contentment." Well. She was LIVID. How can someone who has not experienced this dare say to be content!?

You know how desperate parents always try to redirect their children's attention to something that's good? If they're small, perhaps with a toy, if they're older, perhaps a discussion of perspective. Parents know that passing difficulties are not the big picture. As we seek to leave behind childhood things (1 Cor. 13:11), and think God's thoughts toward ourselves, I'd gently encourage you all to parent yourselves through life's inevitable pain and disappointments. Consider contentment. Direct your attention to the good, the true, and the beautiful. (Phil. 4:8) Know that in the exact way you've always needed to be loved, the way you want to love your children, God is advocating for YOU that way.

The end of the story for my friend is that she came to realize the wisdom of those words, and has since been blessed beautifully with answered prayers and depth of wisdom.

I took a walk this blue crystal day, full of giant puffy clouds lazily moving across the sky, sun kissed warmth, birds singing, and the smell of flowers on the air. At some point, a glorious circling wind blew all the dandelion cottons around, and for a good couple minutes, I was surrounded by their delightful swirling. God didn't have to make the world beautiful, but He did, out of an unfailing love for us.

For those suffering this spring, know our prayers go with you. Know He loves you beyond compare, and wants to hold you through your pain. For all of us, take a moment to parent yourselves with nurture and encouragement that we learn from our perfect Father.

It is Well. Spafford, 1873. The choir of CtK. 

Hello Friends, I write, wondering how today finds each of you. I think most folks with whom I've talked express that their moods and/or stress comes and goes in waves. Some are overwhelmed with work, others boredom; some are overwhelmed by being together all the time, and others are lonely. For the most part, I've been elated to finally have some margins in my over-scheduled life, and embrace a healthier pace and lifestyle. After years of nonstop racing to the finish line of every day, it feels great to have the time to exercise, cook at home, catch up on some projects, and actually spend time with my husband! The last week has been, inexplicably, a bit of a downer for me. I want to come out of this quarantine, whenever that is, healthier and better rested than I started. I can't say I don't have the time now! 

Perhaps ironically, what is grating at me is what so many people finds  valuable and essential right now: virtual,  responsibly distant social events. As an introvert who has found herself in front of people constantly, and as a student who is constantly being graded and assessed, crawling into my turtle shell is immensely appealing. People are different, it's not a right or wrong thing. For my part, I felt defeated when I realized that I had no less than 6 social engagements this past weekend. At the end of the queue was the virtual Lowland Hum concert from CtK's Concert Series. Rick and I absolutely LOVED every minute of their show for us last year (seems like 10 years ago now!). But this Sunday, I felt depleted. I found myself thinking, okay, I'm staff, I need to put a good foot forward. I just don't want to interact anymore. I don't! I'm Zoomed out! I want to eat comfort food, watch a show with my husband, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. Like 7:30. (wink). 

But then I tuned in, and listened. Daniel and Lauren are a young married couple whose musical creativity and excellence are matched only by their own calm, warmly inviting demeanors. They are funny and kind. Their pieces are thoughtful and engaging. Within the first minute, I was frustrated with myself for not inviting everyone I know to  join in. For myriad reasons, life feels edgy and stressful now, and their music and presence was nothing short of a balm. I realized early on that I was breathing the way I otherwise only might during yoga or rest: slowly, calmly, and deeply, and simply enjoying a feeling of well-being. 

While talking and connecting is intrinsic to our humanity and health, there is a large body of evidence growing that treating the physiological symptoms of stress is at least equally, if not more powerful, than are talk therapy or drugs. (See Bessel van der Kolk's excellent book, The Body Keeps the Score - www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/313183/the-body-keeps-the-score-by-bessel-van-der-kolk-md/. Beyond that, the arts, especially music, happen to address the physiological needs in exactly the ways that are therapeutic to stress, even in extreme cases. 
 
Just thinking about their name evokes images of quiet, sprawling country: comfortable, homey, comforting, resonating throughout your being. God's provision comes in so many interesting "packages."  Unsurprisingly, they've thought of many creative ways to build you up during this time; not ways to grab life by the horns, but ways to enjoy contentment, and just be. It is well with my soul, indeed.

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Visit their website lowlandhum.com for more information;  you can stream their music from your service of choice.

I received two forwarded messages from friends first thing this morning. You will have to wait for one at the end of this blog post. The other was an article just for my (and the staff's) information. The title of the article got my immediate attention: "A choir decided to go ahead with rehearsal. Now dozens of members have COVID-19 and two are dead." You can read the entire article here.

​The status and statistics of this pandemic are changing constantly. Granted, this story did not take place in Northern Virginia. However, it did give me pause. That same week, after finally--finally!--resuming choir rehearsals for two weeks, I felt under the weather. On March 11 and 12, recommendations were much looser and more relaxed than they are now. I kept thinking about powering through, and doing the rehearsal. I felt utterly defeated by my poor health. What on earth else, after a four month hiatus, could possibly prevent choir from moving forward? But with the rumblings of Coronavirus and the stubborn symptoms, I just felt the need to cancel. 

There must be something about the way singers breathe and project that made rehearsing so dangerous and deadly for this group in Seattle. I felt a shiver of gratitude at what turned out to be my serendipitous illness. It reminded me of a passage from The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom; certainly not in scale, but in perspective. Here is the excerpt:

     The move to permanent quarters came the second week in October 1944. Betsie and I stared at the long gray front of Barracks 28. Half its windows had been broken and replaced with rags. A door in the center let us into a large room where two hundred or more women bent over knitting needles. On tables between them were piles of gray woolen socks.
     Our noses told us, first, that the place was filthy. Somewhere plumbing had backed up, and the bedding was soiled and rancid. Then as our eyes adjusted to the gloom, we saw that there were no individual beds at all, but great square piers stacked three high, wedged side by side and end to end with an occasional narrow aisle slicing through.
     We followed our guide single file to the center of a large block. She pointed to the second tier. To reach it we had to stand on the bottom level, haul ourselves up, and then crawl across three other straw-covered platforms to reach the one that we would share with—how many? The deck above us was too close to let us sit up. We lay back, struggling against the nausea that swept over us from the reeking straw. We could hear other women finding their places.
     Suddenly I sat up, striking my head on the cross-slats above. Something had pinched my leg.
     “Fleas!” I cried. “The place is swarming with them!
    We scrambled across the platforms, heads low to avoid another bump, dropped down to the aisle, and edged our way to a patch of light.
     "Betsie, how can we live in such a place?” I wailed.
     "Show us how.” It was said so matter of factly it took me a second to realize she was praying. The distinction between prayer and the rest of life seemed to be vanishing for Betsie.
     “Corrie!” she said excitedly. “In the Bible this morning. Where was it? Read that part again!”
     I glanced down the long dim aisle to make sure no guard was in sight, then drew the Bible from its pouch. “It was in First Thessalonians,” I said. “Here it is: ‘Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. . . .’”
     “Go on,” said Betsie.
     “Oh, yes. ‘To one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances—’”
     “That’s it, Corrie! That’s His answer. ‘Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can thank God for everything about this new barracks!”
     I stared at her, then around me at the foul-aired room.
     “Such as?” I said.
     “Such as being assigned here together.”
     I bit my lip. “Oh, yes, Lord Jesus!”
     “Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”
     I looked down at the Bible. “Thank You, dear Lord, that there was no inspection when we entered here! Thank You for all the women, here in this room, who will meet You in these pages.”
     “Yes,” said Betsie. “Thank You for the very crowding here. Since we’re packed so close, that many more will hear!” She looked at me expectantly.
     “Oh, all right,” I said. “Thank You for the jammed, crammed, packed, suffocating crowds.”
     “Thank You,” Betsie went on, “for the fleas and for--"
     This was too much. "Betsie, there's no way even God can make me grateful for a flea."
     "'Give thanks in all circumstances,'" she quoted. "Fleas are part of this place where God has put us."
     So we gave thanks for fleas.
     At day’s end back at the barracks, we received our ladle of turnip soup. Then, as quickly as we could, Betsie and I made our way to the rear of the dormitory room, where we held our worship “service.” Back here a small lightbulb cast a wan yellow circle on the wall, allowing us to read the Bible.  An ever larger group of women gathered.
     They were services like no others, these times in Barracks 28. A meeting might include a recital in Latin by a group of Roman Catholics, a whispered hymn by some Lutherans, and a soft-voiced chant by Eastern Orthodox women.      The women around us packed the platforms, hanging over the edges. Then either Betsie or I would open the Bible. Because only the Hollanders could understand the Dutch text, we would translate aloud in German. We would hear the words passed back along the aisles in French, Polish, Russian, Czech, back into Dutch. They were previews of heaven, these evenings beneath the lightbulb. I would know again that in darkness God’s truth shines most clear.
     No guard ever came near us. So many women now wanted to join us that we held a second service after evening roll call. On the Lagerstrasse we were under rigid surveillance. It was the same in the center room of the barracks: half a dozen guards or camp police always present. Yet in the large dormitory room there was almost no supervision at all. We did not understand it. 
. . .
     One evening when I got back to the barracks, Betsie was waiting for me, eyes twinkling. “You know we’ve never understood why we had so much freedom in the big room,” she said. “I’ve found out.”
     That afternoon, she said, there had been confusion in her knitting group about sock sizes, so they asked the supervisor to come and settle it.
     “But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t step through the door and neither would the guards. And you know why?” Betsie could not keep the triumph from her voice: “Because of the fleas!”
     My mind rushed back to our first hour in this place. I remembered Betsie’s thanks to God for creatures I could see no use for.

The hymn Amazing Grace comes to mind. Not only does God's grace save our eternal souls, but He provides for our daily lives in ways that we may never understand. 

I have just returned from Convergence, having recorded organ accompaniments for Holy Week. (I like to work ahead, but as this is either the fourth or fifth plan, and the decision was made midday today, I worked about as quickly as I could). Just now, as I write, a loud buzzer on my silenced phone startled me with the emergency message that Alexandria residents are to stay at home, with the   single exception of what is absolutely essential. 

From our solitude, we will gather virtually in the next weeks to remember Christ's sacrifice, and His victory over sin and death. In the mean time, we will wait for His second coming in this imperfect world. I want to encourage us all to look for and find the blessings where they are. 

The second forwarded message was a much shorter excerpt based on  The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis:

Satan: "I will cause anxiety, fear and panic. I will shut down business, schools, places of worship, and sports events. I will cause economic turmoil."

Jesus: "I will bring together neighbors, restore the family unit, I will bring dinner back to the kitchen table. I will help people slow down their lives and appreciate what really matters. I will teach my children to rely on me and not on the world. I will teach my children to trust me and not their money and material resources."

Enjoy the listening link below, and my prayers for health and abundant life go with each of you.

Hello Friends,

Greetings from the inside of the four walls of the Lee household. You are all in our prayers for health and safety.

I think we're all learning a lot about ourselves these days: our priorities, our thresholds, our needs. Some of us have much more human contact in our homes than what we are used to, and others are lonely. Some of us are busier than ever, and our jobs have become a health vulnerability, and others are bored, looking to fill the time. We are all adjusting.

After nearly a year of musical plans that did not come to fruition, I confess I am a bit numb to change, which seems to be the one constant in my life. I deeply appreciate the patience, encouragement, and flexibility of the staff, all involved in the music ministry, and this parish. Giving into defeat and despondency might have been tempting, otherwise. 

And why not just make it easy? Why bother rerouting at each new challenge? 

Even as a musician, I roll my eyes at the rather self-congratulatory language used to justify arts education and arts funding. It always sounds corny to me. ("Music is the language of the soul.") At the same time, my husband and I make our livings as musicians, and certainly paid a lot of money to be able and qualified to do our jobs, scholarships notwithstanding. As a military musician, Rick never questions the value and importance of his work. He and his group are frequently repaid by words and tears of gratitude. As a church musician, and the grateful recipient of many years of great church music experiences, I don't doubt the importance of my work either. But in a time like this, is it really essential?

As Christians, we look to the Bible for direction and authority. To read the volume of search results on the topic of worship music in the Bible is to be occupied for a long time. The Scripture is full from beginning to end. Music is covered in narrative, command, invitation, personal prayer, exhortation. 

Interestingly, but not surprisingly, current research in neuroscience sheds some light on why music is so important to humans, and underscores the magnitude of this sacred gift. Without getting too technical, here's the Reader's Digest explanation. First, knowledge is embodied, meaning that information has to pass through the senses to be processed. While academic philosophy and colloquial usage have traditionally separated knowledge and feeling, intellect and emotion, the reality is that they are fully integrated functions of the brain. Second, we take in sensory information as it acts upon us, and understand through an "as-if," mimetic process. We entrain our thoughts to imagine ourselves as though they were engaged in what is conveyed to us sensually. This is how we understand each other socially. If I see your face fall, mine falls too, mimetically, in an effort to understand, by feeling, what it is you're feeling. Perhaps you see a pastoral or tropical landscape painting. Perhaps you imagine yourself there, but even before that, the horizontal line means rest to you, as though you were lying down, and the light colors, with smaller, shorter light rays, are easy on the eyes. In music, a rising line or high note may make you feel euphoric! Why? If you were very high, you might be floating or flying, or you might feel that you have transcended the earth, and thus your thoughts are drawn to the sacred. Thirdly, the sensory information immediately and pre-consciously makes changes in our physiology, tightening or loosening muscles, maintaining inner homeostasis in the presence of safety or danger. Fourth, and even more fascinating, is that this is a reciprocal relationship; anyone familiar with EMDR, dance therapy, yoga or similar practices, or walk and talk therapy knows that by retraining your physical reactions, you can learn to think differently and heal trauma. 

When we make or listen to music, even alone, this complicated, pre-conscious process takes place in a millisecond. We take it in, and we physically entrain to it. Our physiology adapts to the sense data, whether it is exhilarating, calming, meditative, sad, or something else. Before we've even begun to make conscious associations and employ higher-level, "top-down" thoughts about interpretation, we have united empathetically with the music. This explains why we sometimes have visceral reactions we can't explain, immediately hating or rejecting some song or style. And it explains our fierce loyalty to the music we love. We've united with it in our whole being, and by extension, the others engaged in it. When the music is for worship, it becomes a prayer and a connection of our entire being to God. When we are together in corporate worship, the unity of heart and purpose is  all-encompassing. 

I remember having the realization at a young age that God did not have to make food (or anything else) good. It could have been some vitamin that we took to refuel. Instead, he made food a delight. He could have restricted our ability to connect with others or Him to conveyance of fact, and our relationship to Him could have been defined by duty. Instead, He gifted us with hints of His divine creativity and ways beyond our comprehension to love and be loved. 

During this season of isolation, I hope you will enjoy the online musical offerings here at ctkfriendsofmusic.com; and I look forward to joining you all in worship and praise as soon as we can safely be back together.



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