I Once Was Lost

Late last summer my mom and I were putting in some hosta plants in the west-side garden between the driveway and the street. I was using my left-handed felco pruners to unbind the roots. After all was said and done I went to collect my tools and it was gone. We had planted about 25 hostas. We looked and looked. I borrowed a metal detector from Nehemiah and Solomon. I kept looking off and on until the snow fell.

I asked for and received a new pruners for Christmas. Actually two. Because my mom gave me my dad's and my in-laws got me a new one.

April 28.  There is it, lying on top of the mulch in plain sight. A little rusty and muddy. I posted the picture on Facebook and I was thinking about how my grandpa could fix it up right smart. Without him around, I will have to take it to the hardware store.

Cousin Robin saw the post and commented the same. Grandpa would fix it. He would oil it and sharpen the blade and align it.

But he would've found it on the day he dropped it.
He never stopped looking for the lost thing.

He found my pocket knife in Canada. I knew it was somewhere. . . . he found it under the dock. In eight feet of Canadian lake water. And he dried it off and oiled it.

He could get a knot out of the finest silver chain. Slivers? Not a chance against that man of patience.

I took something from the pump house before my grandma sold the farm.  It's a leather dog leash. Sewn together in five places with tidy little pieces of wire. The leather was still oiled. You just don't buy a new dog leash when the old one wears through. You fix it. And fix it. And fix it.

God, the stuff I throw away in a day.
Amazon will bring you a new one in less than two hours.

I've always hated lost stuff. I think it is the symbol of negligence. If something is worth having it's worth taking care of, and being taken care means first and foremost not being lost.

Guilt. I let the snow fall. On my left-handed pruners. Now I have three.
I'll take one to the cabin. And I'll have a spare for when I take the other to the hardware store. Cuz I don't know how to oil it and sharpen it and align it myself.

The similar thing happened Christmas of 2008. With my dad's home-made ice cream machine.  It was the tradition. New Year's Eve. And the darn thing busted. Blew out the motor. Because I'm a rigid follower of traditions, I told him we'd stop and get a new one on the way home from our lady's day out shopping. We'd give it to him for an early birthday gift, I said. He was disgusted. The aren't cheap. Just stop and get store-bought ice-cream, he said. I won. We made the ice cream and it was wonderful and the kids licked the beaters in the garage with spoons my mom sent out and the cookie sheet to put all the parts on. Photo op.

Two points.

Number One. My dad took the old motor into the hardware store and the guy fixed it. $6. I'm ashamed to tell you what the new one cost. Bill and I took it home and we still use it on New Year's Eve and the forth of July. My dad's handwritten 12/31/2008 in sharpie on the box.

Second point. That was the last time my dad made ice cream for us. So there. It was worth the $200.

I guess there's a time to be frugal and a time for extravagant grace. The dog leash hangs in my closet with my belts and tries to remind me of life's lessons. And the pocket knife is in my jewelry box, rust-free with the red label tape "Stephens" on the side.

I'm missing those two men--and thinking of the bear hugs they gave me and the lessons they left me. I don't think they would approve of Amazon Prime. My grandpa would say--we don't need that--and give me a wink. My dad would call it Sahara Express and I'd probably get a wink from him too.

Upcoming Special Dates--Invitation to a Mud-Pie

There are some very special performances on the horizon.

May 1--Easter Lutheran Choral Service, your's truly, the Easter Choir, the handbells, Bill Henry and other instrumentalists will tell the story in two services, 8:30 a.m. and 10:00.  Links to live steaming at www.easter.org. (In case you are my mother. . . )

June 3rd--3:30 p.m. Calvin's freshman recital run-through at our home.  He will play Bach's F Minor Keyboard Concerto with a string chamber ensemble, Beethoven Op. 2, No.1, Chopin Op. 18, a Chopin Nocturne and Mazurka, and two Debussy pieces. He will close with his own arrangement of Mercy, Mercy, Mercy by Joe Zawinul. Refreshments will follow. RSVP to Sara.

June 4th--Studio recital at Sundin Music Hall on Hamline University. 1:00 p.m.  Twenty-five kids will play from their heart! Refreshments will follow.

June 4th--Calvin's Freshman program with string ensemble--at Sundin Hall at 3:30. Refreshments will follow. RSVP to Sara.

June 5th--Suzuki Association of Minnesota BBQ at our house at 5:00 p.m. Family event for SAM members--or anyone who wants to stop by.  RSVP to Sara.

June 10--Mary will play her Book 4 graduation at our home at 5:30. She will play 12 selections by Bach, Mozart, Grieg, Burgmüller, and others.  She will be accompanied by Conor and Adrianna O'Brien on violin and cello. Refreshments and appetizers will follow. RSVP to Sara.

June 10--7:30 Lena Schmitt will perform her senior recital at our home. She will play Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Chopin, and Grieg. She will be accompanied by Conor and Adrianna. Dessert and dinner will follow. RSVP to Sara.

Congrats also to Solomon and Nehemiah, graduating from Books 5 and 4 on May 15.

I'm reading The Perfect Wrong Note by William Westney. In his first chapter, titled "Music, Magic and Childhood" he says and quotes J.M. Thorburn:

No matter how old we get, there is something uniquely precious in that which we fabricate with our own hands. In the works of J. M. Thorburn, "all the genuine, deep delight of life is in showing people the mud-pies you have made; and life is at its best when we confidingly recommend our mud-pies to each other's sympathetic consideration."  

Please consider coming out to hear these kids--they've been working very hard. They want to share their precious mud-pies.

And by the way. . . . thanks for reading my mud-pie.

Nurtured Into Independence

We Don't Do Much in Moderations Around Here. 

Sniff, sniff--thank you Matthew

All the kids work hard, but when you're blind, Book One graduation is extra special! 

That's a Keeper. Thanks, Ford. 

I could write a whole entry about each of these photos. When you really study them--a picture is worth a thousand words.

Mary and Tasha's pipe cleaner dolls--diversity. And a little bit of OCD in the DNA.
Matthew's school paper--the role of accomplishment in the development of self esteem.
Preston's celebration--music as a gateway to well--everything--for a visually impaired child.
Ford's composition--the development of intuition and understanding of the language of music.

Even before I read Gist, the best parenting book EVER, a theme in the studio this year was increasing the quality of independent practice in kids in say--fourth grade and above. That's not good writing. . . but. . . I'm a little sleepy.

Everything, everything, everything we do, as parents and as music teachers, must lead the child down the road, however gently and gradually toward independence. As human beings this means being compassionate, trustable, responsible contributors to society. As musicians, this means actually loving music and practicing and performing because we really just want to. Not because our parents signed us up, or because it makes us smarter or because we want to show off for our friends. We play  because music is a language of expression of the soul.

Jeepers it's so easy to forget that when we're so caught up in how the kid's not practicing the A-flat scale enough. Or when they haven't even practiced enough to get through the notes.

I feel this tremendous responsibility to lure these children into a lifelong love affair with piano. When I'm not achieving that with any certain kid--and Bill will back me up on this--I can't sleep. If they quit before they are hooked. That's the worst.

Dr. Suzuki says, "ability leads to ability." Truth. It's a circle--you practice and the piece gets better--and you love it more--and the next piece gets better and it's even more fun--and you see the pieces coming ahead and you can't wait to play them and you finally get there and you dig in and make it happen and you can't believe you're playing such a "hard" and great piece.  

But you can't do that unless you have the tools to go home and get r'done.

There's a poster floating around the web about the stages of learning a piece. It's something like-
1. Wow that's an awesome piece, I really want to learn that.
2 This is cool, I'm going to get to play this.
3. Hmm. It's a little harder than I thought.
4. Jeepers--I'm really poor at this.
5. I really don't think I like this piece anymore.
6. Actually, I hate it.
7. Well, it's is getting a little better everyday.
8. Hmm, I'm actually getting it.
9. This is a really cool piece.
10. I LOVE THIS PIECE.

You get the point. But some kids never get there. So here are a couple ideas for independent practicing.

1. Setting goals (you must set a goal for the week, and for each session at the piano)
2. Give specific assignments (get the A section at quarter note equals 80 or memorize the right hand of the B section)
3. Learn to break it down to the smallest necessary snippet. Go beat to beat and bar to bar (as Tadeusz and Paul teach).
4. Use tools like rhythms and blocking to fix the hard stuff.

Even the littlest ones can do a checklist of their own body. Feet, back, hands, fingers, eyes. Play. They are in charge of their very little bodies.

Parenting? That's a whole other story as well. The gist of the Gist book is--trying to parent less and let life do the teaching. This is especially hard for those of us whose default is talking and talking. Instead of fixing the behavior and getting on with it--we talk and talk and add shame to the cycle. Swift and consistent consequences are compassionate and offer optimum opportunity for redemption.

The Gist way: child spilled her milk? Child cleans it up. Done.

My way? I want to talk on and on about how if we had better table manners and were paying more attention and if you had your sleeves rolled up better. . . and probably this is the outcome of a complete lack of self control that really started back in preschool and really--you're gonna feel so stupid in the dorm cafeteria when you spill your milk all over your new friends. Jeepers, even the little piano kids don't spill like this. Here. Let ME CLEAN THAT UP WITH MUCH HEAVY SIGHING AND DRAMA.

I'm not always that bad. But I have to think about it all the time. And I still run the forgotten clarinet back over for band. (I think that might be the music teacher in me, band is only once a week. . . ) But I'm getting better about some things.

A lot of it comes down to having faith that we have good kids and that they're turning out fine and just letting life take care of the little stuff.  Kids know right from wrong.

Nurtured into independence. At the piano and at life. Confidence comes from achievement. The truest compassion is swift and consistent discipline. Teach the kids how to practice at every lesson. Less talk.

Happy weekend. A chance to do less parenting and maybe a little more gardening.

Spring Forward

A few of my piano kids at Sundin Hall on March 12. 

The "After" Picture. New life to a very old sofa.

A before picture of the cabin kitchen

The other side. Say goodbye to three layers of vinyl flooring. 

Easter Dinner

The school year of our Lord, that is, 2015-2016, will go down as the most dramatically and obviously overbooked year yet to date. I'm not proud of this. . . we are weaving our way out. . . and saving future yeses for sacred tasks. I have put a passcode on the iCal application, and the password is: "don't do this." That is a joke. But. . . sometimes you have to hit rock bottom before it all becomes clear. It's clear. Just say no.

In spite of week after week of 15 hour days. . . and the tail bone thing, and 10 weeks of bronchitis, it's been a really, really great year. I've never been more thankful for my family & friends, and the studio and our music teacher organizations and our choir.

The piano kids are playing beautifully. Every single one. I'm so pleased. The new piano sounds great and it's really a boost. All the ideas from Kathy Faricy and Calvin's coaching with Tadeusz Majewski have also been a great inspiration to me. And, I'm this . . .  close to finishing the teacher training process. The national conference in May, and my internship in Colorado in June, and I'm there.

I'm also reading the best book ever. Thank you, Kathy H. from Deerwood for this recommendation. The book is called GIST, the Essence of Raising Life-Ready Kids, by Michael W. Anderson and Timothy Johanson. It's one of those where you want to buy a copy for everyone whether they have kids or not. I. LOVE. THIS. BOOK.

The book validates every gut feeling I ever had about parenting, but didn't have the courage, mindfulness or stamina to follow through upon. And some that I did. The book is convicting but equally encouraging. I believe it also correlates well with our Suzuki philosophy. For example, when you are in a mode where you feel like there is a million things to fix about a kid, you just pick two things, and focus on ONLY those. For example--getting out of bed on time, and brushing their teeth morning and night. Then you make a dramatic consequence for ONLY those things. We really can only change a little at a time. It's the same thing with any good piano lesson--one or maybe two. . . points to think about is all the child can handle.

The other parallel is that although the Suzuki Triangle is critical for early childhood, ultimately we need kids who can practice independently and take ownership of their piano life, sooner rather than later. It might perhaps be the most important thing. We can't sit with them forever. Same with life. We can't knock on the dorm room door every morning to get the kid out of bed. I'm gonna turn on the light in five minutes. . . . not.

My last Deerwood plant sale is almost done. I'm not saying that I made any serious oversights, but there wasn't a place for the student's name, on the order form that went out to 500 families, and it says the forms are due Monday April 1. Tra la la.

Spring forward. There's a light at the end of the tunnel. Two months left. I'm renewed and ready to go. I'm prioritizing sleep and cutting out sugar. I'm making sure I get my exercise even if it means I can't schedule a meeting. This is how we do it.

At the end of this school year, I will know we did a great thing. I'm sure you all have done great things too. Summer will be a fresh start.

Happy Easter!

Here's a link to our Easter choir performance--Calvin and I had a very fun time doing a four hands accompaniment.
"I Know that My Redeemer Lives"

My God, My God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me

I've told this story before. . . but sometimes we like to tell stories again. I shared this at the 5:00 Good Friday Service Yesterday, and Mary shared her poem and drawing.  Blessings.

I grew up in a small town Lutheran church in Iowa. My father was always the choir director and he sang solos throughout the year as well. Holy week was always busy.

Growing up, almost every year for Good Friday service he chose the Theodore Dubois cantata, The Seven Last Words of Christ. Similar to Easter’s Tenebrae service, there is one song for each of the seven last words of Christ.  I knew each of the seven the movements by heart and I’d sing along in my mind, listening to his voice, the choir and the other soloists. It was a tradition. A family tradition. A community tradition. After I grew up I didn’t hear the cantata for many, many years.

Then, seven years ago on Palm Sunday, my dad gathered several small town Tipton, Iowa church choirs together, to put on a big musical production of the cantata. There were Catholics, Methodists and Lutherans.  It was his vision. This was to be a multi-denominational community event. He was to conduct this huge choir and he rented a black tux just for the occasion.

The kids and Bill and I drove down from Minnesota, on that Palm Sunday, to see my dad, my sister, my uncles, my cousins, and the church choirs of Tipton, Iowa sing those wonderful, terrible, seven last words of Christ. It was a family event. It was a community event.

When it came time for the fourth word, the local high school choir director took over the conducting baton and my dad stepped up to the microphone to sing the baritone solo. He sang that fourth movement--God. . . my. . . father. . . God. . . my father. . . why. . . has thou. . . forsaken. . . me.  He sang. We listened.

As it turned out, those were the last words I ever heard my dad sing in public.

When the cantata was over, my mom had a big reception back at the house, because, well, that’s what she does. Everybody came. It had been such a spiritually moving and beautiful production, we needed the afterglow.

My dad shook a couple hands and gave a couple hugs but then, immediately fell fast asleep in his chair, still in his tuxedo.

We knew he was tired. We knew something was wrong. But, we didn’t know, he had stage-four pancreatic cancer.

We didn’t know it until that next Thursday, Maundy Thursday, when the doctor called he and my mom into the office for those other, terrible, terrible last words. Terminal. Cancer.

Although my dad never uttered those words “why me,” this irony of that last song he sang was never lost on the rest of us. God, my father, why hast thou forsaken me? He died less than five months later.

Bad things happen to good people. Everyday. That’s for sure. We all know someone. Multiple someones.

Some of us, like me, once upon a time, believed that if we were good, really good. . . if we were obedient, really obedient, nothing bad would ever happen to us. God would protect us. My dad was very good. My dad was very obedient. It wasn’t fair.

When you think like that, it’s easy to feel forsaken, when the bad thing happens. And sooner or later, the bad thing will happen.

Bad things happen to good people. Sometimes it feels like bad things always happen to good people. We wonder how can God let these things happen? How can he forsake us like this? How can he let these cancers, these earthquakes, these terrorist attacks happen? We pray for protection. We pray for a miracle. But we don’t always get it. Even Jesus didn’t get it.

I guess Jesus is the best proof that bad things happen to good people. God let his own son cry out and die and never came forth with the miracle.

To me, Jesus dying on the cross, uttering those words of complete abandonment is the best reconciliation of every bad thing that ever happened to every good person. 

The bad things are reconciled, because they happened to Jesus too, especially to Jesus. Jesus was good. Really good. Jesus was obedient, really obedient. It’s almost like the cancer diagnosis happened to Jesus too. And the earthquakes. And the terrorist attacks.

Every bad thing that ever happened, happened to Jesus too, and worse.

Jesus felt that betrayal. Jesus felt abandoned. Jesus felt forsaken. It wasn’t fair. And he uttered those words out loud, in public. Those human words.

And it was acceptable. To feel human feelings. It acceptable to feel forsaken. It was human to feel forsaken.  

But, as we know from the story, it turns out that God didn’t actually forsake Jesus. God was there all the time.

And Jesus did get his miracle.  The miracle of resurrection.

And though there may be times on this Earth when we feel forsaken by God, He is also with us all the time and we will get our miracle too. 

When I see injustice in the world and in the lives of people I know, I circle back around to this, no matter what bad things happen to good people, they happened to Jesus too, and just like Jesus, we will not stay forsaken. Just like Jesus, we will rise. We will all rise. Amen.

Labor of Love (part one)

The piano is here safe and sound. No heart attacks were sustained. No limbs or digits were crushed. No head injuries. No cats were stepped on. There is no hole through any part of the house looking down into the basement.

It arrived Saturday while I was at the SAM piano graduation. That was probably a good thing. Bill is in better shape cardiovascular-ly and emotionally, to deal with such things. In case you haven't been following the story--Doris Harrel's Steinway B is now here in Minnesota. We took out the bookcase in the stairwell. We moved the Baldwin to the basement. Around through the backyard. Upon the recommendation of the Baldwin movers, we took out the railings and banister to the staircase to accommodate seven more inches of piano. The Steinway showed up and four masculine angels in jeans and workbooks zenned it up the staircase. Mind over matter. It was just a lot of matter that's all. Slow and steady. They took off the lid--there's a 100 pounds right there. They pulled the action. Every piece possible.

They put it all back together. All the kings horses and all the kings men.
Now, we just need to make it safely through another week until the railing is fixed (pieces are numbered and laid out in the basement) and we will turn the page on this chapter and say our thank yous and blessings.

That's all I have time to say about this right now. Much more later. . .

Once in a Lifetime

Once in a Lifetime

So we did the Austin thing. Two weeks ago we took the family down to Texas to visit my old stomping grounds. We left on Thursday and came home Monday. This was our spring break, albeit early. ISD #196 spring break is Holy Week this year and that pretty much put the kibosh on any dreams of Hawaii. Woe is us.

It has a happy ending.

After the flight landed we drove immediately to El Mercado. Sitting outside they brought us bottomless fresh tortilla chips and we hooked ourselves up to the I.V. drip of salsa. Real salsa. Mainline. Fresh cilantro. I also ordered a Corona, even though it was only noon, because, well, that’s what you do, at El Mercado, sitting outside, in the courtyard, eating your chips and salsa. You don’t even really have to drink it, you just have to have it in your hand.

We proceeded to be Austin tourists. Barton Creek. Toy Joy. Waterloo Ice House. Hamilton Pool. Mama, is this where you went with your boyfriend Dean? Is this another place you lived?  So, I guess I overdid it with the “kids, look!. . . This is where I lived in grad school. . . . “  They glance up from the screen toward the white box garage apartment with three A.C. units hanging out the second story windows. Neat, Mama. Patronizing at best.

Show a little respect. This is sacred ground. This’s where I learned to live alone. Not everyone can say that. It took four years, and the first few weekends were gut wrenching lonely, but by the end I couldn’t ever imagine sharing a bathroom with anyone ever again.

The place hasn’t changed in 18 years. Mama, is that bad? You look sad. I don’t know. I guess the landlord could have thrown a coat of paint on it. I think my little garden might still be growing. The outdoor steps never quite recovered from the Mayflower moving guys hauling the Baldwin out. The gate is still hanging off the fence.

Bill made the executive decision to take the kids to Whataburger while I went to lunch with Doris and Vickie and Mary P. Good call, Bill. Lunch with four piano teachers takes two to three hours at best. 

On the way to lunch, driving in Doris’s car, she casually mentions that she has decided to sell her Steinway. Right there on Dean Keaton Avenue, I almost had to pull the car over. She forgot about my letter last March, where I tried to have some small ounce of tact while making it clear to her that if her children weren’t interested in the piano and if she didn’t take it to some future apartment, I would like to be first on the list to buy it. That’s okay.  She’s had a lot on her mind.

I told her right then and there on Dean Keaton that I wanted it. She insisted that we come down to San Marcos and play it.

The last time our whole family was in Texas was at least five years ago. The last time we had this kind of leisurely weekend was never. Forgive me if I say this was a total God thing. We had nothing planned for Saturday. After the token 65 minute wait for breakfast at The Kirby Lane Café on Kirby Lane and migas with tomatillo sauce and gingerbread pancakes, we hauled ourselves down to San Marcos in the rented minivan.

Doris was there waiting. Mary played through her Book 4 repertoire. Calvin played most of Bach’s F Minor Concerto and most of Beethoven’s Op. 2, No. 1 and Chopin’s Op. 18. I played a couple scales, cuz I’m so busy practicing with them I got no repertoire of my own. That was embarrassing, but I can take that.

There I sat next to Doris on the sofa where I spent books 1 through 5. I listened to the kids play that repertoire that they had just played on the MacPhail nine foot Steinway last weekend. I had all these sounds in my ears. Doris leaned over and said, “I think he likes that piano.” As if she needed to sell it. The piano shined. After they finished Doris and I just looked at each other. What could I possibly be qualified to say about this moment. I’m not worthy of comment. What finally came out of my mouth was something like, Doris—I can’t imagine that I could ever, ever, in my whole life, do any better than this. No piano could ever sound better than that afternoon and no instrument could ever had more meaning to me. What Ralph and Doris picked out 46 years ago, and played on and taught on, till this day, was too sacred to discuss.

There are a few moments in a marriage that pierce your heart. Engagement. Two lines on a stick that you pee on. Births and deaths.

Bill said, I’ll go out to the car and get the checkbook. He let me write the check.

Don’t kid yourself—this is gonna take some sacrifice and more than a little creative financing—but it was the right thing at the right time. A once in a lifetime thing. Like everyone, my love and gratitude toward Doris is immeasurable. Now her piano will carry on the Suzuki torch, for everyone, through the Kotrba Piano Studio.  

Dear Lord, I don’t deserve this instrument. I’m not a concert pianist. But, I do have an appreciation for it beyond words. Let this piano be a blessing to my children, my students and to the Suzuki Community. Let the spirit of Ralph and Doris and their love of music and all the music that has been played on it carry forward to the children and teachers from generation to generation. Amen.