Joyful Haste

Come, dear children, don't be dallying,
All the family now is rallying,
Not a moment now to spare,
joyful haste is in the air.
There are nuts to crack
and candies to make,
and birds to stuff
and cookies to bake.
There's many and many a thing to do,
which we have done before.
For Christmas, blessed Christmas
is here once more!

Now begins a mighty scurrying,
each to do his task is hurrying,
All to finish he contrives,
Ere the glorious day arrives.
There are gifts to wrap
and cards to write,
and secrets kept with great delight,
there's many and many a mystery
behind each closet door.
For Christmas, blessed Christmas
is here once more!

O was there ever such a jolly day?
Fam'lies gathered for the holiday.
Home is filled with dancing eyes,
laughter, love and glad surprise.
There are friends to see
and prayers to say,
and songs to sing in rondelay,
There's many a lovely memory
of Christmastides of yore.
For Christmas, blessed Christmas
is here once more!

My mom is arriving for Christmas tomorrow night.  I'm filled with memories of my own grandparents arriving on Christmas Eve, the house spotless and candles aglow, oyster stew on the stove.  Presents wrapped and under the tree.  We were scrubbed and tubbed and hair in curlers ready to open gifts and head out to church at 11:00 p.m.

My house is a wreck.  The candles are making me sneeze. There are Christmas 2011 CDs of Calvin's in every stage all over the countertop.  There is wrapping paper all over the living room floor.  I'm going to have to buy some more tomorrow in spite of my herculean effect to be organized and not run errands at the last minute.  Bill has the computer printer out on the dining room floor furiously printing Christmas card envelopes in between conference calls.  Sorry to report that you will not be getting a hand written note on your card--if you get one at all.  There are four loads of laundry to fold on top of the drier.  Cat litter.

Suffice it to say, loving mother, that there won't be oyster stew on the stove as you pull in the drive tomorrow.  I will be at choir practice, faking my way through four anthems for Christmas Eve.  Can I pick you up a Subway sandwich on my way home?  Chips?  Soda?

I am defeated.  I can't do it all.  I'm sorry.  I give up.
I'm going to bed and some of the presents might get Hello Kitty gift bags instead of coordinated papers from Hallmark.  I went ahead and made appointments for the family to all have rapid strep tests tomorrow, just as a precaution. . . usually tomorrow is the day at least one child wakes up throwing up with a 102 temp.  Tra la la.

But, I still love it.  I love Christmas.  Don't let my complaining fool you.  "Come Dear Children" is still my favorite carol.  I still contrive to finish ere the glorious day arrives.  Joyful--well mostly joyful--haste is in the air.

Christmas Blessed Christmas is here once more.

Hope's Legacy

Today is the one year anniversary of Hope's death.  My family asked if I would include the message I spoke at her funeral.  Today I have just been thinking about how blessed  I am to have such a family.

If you are in a Christmas hurry--don't feel like you have to read the whole thing--I just wanted to share it.

Grandma Hope, I called her “Mama” because that is what my mom called her—was the single most influential person in my life,  after my mom and dad and sister Susan.

Mama taught me about the importance of family traditions.  She taught me that there is meaning and connection in our family rituals.  When I was little, every Friday after Thanksgiving, she and my mom and Susan and I went Christmas shopping.  We ate at Bishops Buffet and got the same ham, French fries and chocolate pie every year.  Every year she and Grandpa came to Eldridge on Christmas Eve. Come rain or snow, they pulled in the drive before dark.  They never missed a year. Before they arrived, my mom had everything ready and perfect—candles lit—hair in rag curlers, and  we tried to nap while we waited and waited for them. When at last they honked the horn in the drive,  we unloaded from the car, the box of gifts, without name tags.  Every year we helped put the gift tags on from the same little box of tags, stored in a baggie, with a clothes pin fastening it shut of course.  Year after year, Christmas Eve dinner, we fished the oysters out of the oyster stew and gave them to Grandpa, settling for the warm milk that was left behind. 

Every year she and Grandpa came back only two weeks later in January to celebrate my birthday.  And every summer I spent two weeks alone with them on the farm.  This is where I learned that Mama did everything better.  The laundry.  One of my first complete sentences was “Mama washy better.”  She toilet trained me.  She did everything better.  This included her home made vanilla pudding—three egg yolks, 2/3 cup sugar, ¼ teaspoon salt, 3 heaping tablespoons of flour, and 2 cups 2% milk—add butter and vanilla at the end.   Lastly, but very important,  you must cover the bowl with wax paper and fasten with a rubber band.  Years later I realized that the true secret was that she stood there and stirred it the whole time it cooked.  No lumps.  She never left the stove.  She never multitasked like we all do nowadays.  Never.  Sometimes this made Grandpa have to wait a long time. 

Her unwillingness to multitask was integral to her most treasured characteristic, her ability to listen deeply.  Mama listened deeply.  My first experience with this came at the very tender age of four years old.  Little four-year-old Sara Jo—I poured out my heart to her.  I told her about how I had never really been happy.  At four years old, I had never truly been happy because I was bored—bored of watching my mom clean up after the cats.  Hope was probably holding back hysterical laughter, but she listened.  She listened sitting down.  Incidentally you also knew she was listening because she took notes.  Really good notes.  A lot of notes.  Sometimes that wasn’t such a good thing.  But in the very best way, her ability to listen deeply has carried through my whole life—right up to a few months ago when she listened without interrupting, without trying to fix things, this time--to a not such a little girl Sara Jo—pour out my heart again, this time about my sick dad.  She just listened.  Deeply.

Mama taught me that there is meaning in objects, not in a materialistic way, but in a way that preserves history and family stories.  Consequently my home and garden are filled with memories of she and Grandpa.  We have volunteer pines trees from their forests, and hundreds of ferns have grown in my garden from the seedlings I transplanted from north of their house.  The rocks in our Eagan fireplace were handpicked from Grandpa’s fields, and carried one pickup load at a time from the 80 to Minnesota.   We are still burning wood in our fireplace that Uncle Dave and Grandpa split.  Everywhere I look around me I have reminders of the legacy of my Grandparents and the memories I share with them.  That made Hope happy.  It makes me happy too.  

All these memories and stories we can share are really special to me, but the greatest legacy that Hope leaves with me, is the legacy of her faith.   She and I  talked about our faith together, but mostly Hope gave me books. All with a hand written message and date in the front cover.  She gave me my first Bible, and C.S. Lewis books.  Then came books by Martin Luther, Oswald Chambers, Deitrich Bonhoeffer, Thomas Merton, and the list could go on and on.  My favorite was Madeleine L’Engle.  Last January when she moved and I took home a stack of books—her Madeleine L’Engle was as dog-eared and highlighted as mine.  We highlighted many of the same lines.  She would have called that a “God incidence.”  She found God incidences everywhere.  I think actually her whole life was a God incidence to me.  One of her favorite words—we all know the magnet on her fridge—was: Shalom.   And her favorite song was “Let There Be Peace on Earth.”  So, Hope is finally in complete peace now, the ultimate Shalom, ready for an eternity of God incidences and we will go forth and each in his own way continue her legacy.  Shalom. 

Sara Stephens Kotrba

Eagan, Minnesota

December 20, 2010

The Gift of Music

Friday night eight students shared their music at the Clare Bridge Nursing Home in Eagan.  Aidan, Lena, Cassy, Solomon, Nehemiah, Mary, Calvin, and Sami played for Sami's grandfather and the rest of the residents.

Things were restless when we got there, getting 36 memory care residents into the foyer with chairs and wheelchairs and walkers is no small feat.

As soon as the music started a hush came over everyone.  They were all there.  Listening.  Sometimes singing along in quiet voices. Attentive and responsive. Appreciative. Focused. One hour of peace.

Music touches a very deep part of the brain.

When Ralph Harrel was in the hospital and suffering pain, Doris tells the story of the nurse bringing up a handful of CDs for him.  She tells how humming the bass line to the middle movement of Beethoven's Pathetique sonata soothed him when no pain medicine could.  Peace.

I think of my dad and his fear and confusion after his cancer induced stroke.  He struggled to form complete sentences, but easily sang bass through the whole LBW hymnal with me.  A morning of peace.

When I was so nervous to perform my graduate piano recital, my friend Ginny wrote me a note.  She died, but the note is glued in the front of my Bible and it says: Congratulations, Sara--Tonight the Lord will Bless you as you bless Him with the gifts He has given you.  Love, Ginny.

Music can raise us up from pain, confusion, and fear.  It isn't about us and our fragile egos--music is a gift.  It is a gift from God that we are meant to share--from Mary and Calvin's Jingle Bell duet at the nursing home to Easter Church's Christmas choral service with handbells, choir and orchestra.

Thank you Lord for the gift of music.  Help us to share it in meaningful and beautiful ways.

Suburban Courage

Twice in the last 48 hours I have had my heart race, pounding violently in my chest.

Thursday night at 12:10 I was just drifting off to sleep when the sound of a helicopter over my head aroused me. After about ten more minutes of the copter noise I got up and looked out my bedroom window, to the back yard and the hill down to the pond.  We have 3/4 of an acre of property in a pie shape down to Blackhawk Lake.  The copter circled our back yard and the pond.  I sat on the bed and thought about why this would be. A lost child?  Coyotes after a pet? Animal loose from the zoo?

Then two men with flashlights appeared running down the hill and I decided that would be just a good of a time as any to pick up the phone and dial 911.  Guys in the backyard is never really a good sign.  Eagan police rock.  The dispatcher answered on the first ring.  (I have made calls to report accidents driving home late from gigs in Austin where I was put on hold for up to five minutes. . . )  I told her I lived on Blackhawk Road and there was a helicopter over my house and two guys with flashlights in my back yard.  She was totally tracking.  She said--those are our officers (relief. . . ).  They were chasing a burglar (not such a relief).  They went sprinting down the hill.  My heart was pounding. . . I locked the (thanks Kathy Trimble) solid oak doors with brass locks to the kids rooms and went to the piano room to look out front where three squad cars in full regalia were parked in front of the driveway.  Great.  Last time I checked, they weren't sending out helicopters and multiple squad cars for high school kids toilet papering houses. . .

The copter left by 12:50 and by 1:10 the three squad cars were gone. I called the police back and she told me they had cleared the area (good news) and they were convinced he wasn't there (not such great news).  I was hoping she would say they caught the burglar.  Should I go to bed. . . I asked her?  I'm alone in the house with two kids.  She said--yes, if my doors and windows were locked I should go to bed.  I felt so much better then.  Not. . . .

So I laid in bed and thought about how our house was made of love and nothing but love could surround it and about how angels float around the perimeter and I actually drifted off to sleep. I wove prayers into our house while we built it--I have never been scared here. I was scared then. Suburban courage.

The other time my heart was racing was to play my one big anthem with the choir tonight. This time, it was a good racing.  A happy excited racing.  Not a panic racing.  But it still took courage.

I thought about how much courage it takes to make the world go around.  Yes, there is performance anxiety, and people who do public speaking--but I thought about those folks who deliver food in Africa for Feed My Starving Children.  I thought about my friend's husband on the Houston swat team.  I thought about our baby sitter's husband Scott in Afghanistan using his bomb sniffing dog to "clear the area."  I thought about those cops running down my backyard into the dark woods.  I hoped they knew the pond wasn't frozen through yet. . .   I hoped they didn't trip over the stump we left on chain saw day. . . to say the least. . . how their hearts must race.

We saw a play last night at Eastview High.  It took courage for those kids to get up there and act so well.

It takes courage to change bad relationships.

My friend is an attorney to who defends people.  It takes courage when someone's future is on your shoulders in a court of law.

It also takes some courage to write down your thoughts and share them.

I guess when push comes to shove, it takes courage to do just about anything of any value.  To teach.  To parent.  To lead. To design buildings people will use for years.  To train bomb sniffing dogs.  To chase burglars.  

Left to my own accord--it wouldn't take too much courage for me to stay in my house and make sure I had all my drawers cleaned out--some days that is what I feel like doing.  But, I want to be brave and put myself out into the world.

Here's to us all--cops and musicians--and all the big and small courage we share.

Happy Hearts & Glitter

Report cards came home last Friday.  In homeroom the kids get a grade for listening and following directions.  This never goes over so well at our house. Could it be that my kids just have so much on their minds that it is unbearably hard for them to listen and follow directions?  Or are we just not strict enough?  It is true--how many times a day to I have to say Mary. . . Mary. . . Mary. . . before I get her attention.

How can you learn anything if you are so busy with whatever it is in your own head at that moment the teacher is. . . . . what?  I'm sorry. . .what did you say?   Sorry. . . hey, can we get out some glitter and glue and make a Christmas tree?

I digress.  No wait--it was Mary that got me off track again.  To work on this I instigate the happy hearts game at the piano. I love this game. Basically--you relinquish any pianistic goals. The only goal is listening and following instructions--with a happy heart.  I draw a heart with a happy face in the middle of a piece of my famous white card stock.  Every time she does what I say without me repeating it she gets a tally.  Each tally is worth a nickel.  Or a hug.  Or ten tallies equals an airplane ride.  Or m&ms if it has been a particularly taxing day.

It is a glorified "Simon Says."

We have had two great practices already this week, just by using this game.  And pianistic goals were met after all.

I have also had students play the "yes Mom" game.  If the student can't/won't do what the parent says at the practice, then stop everything else and make compliance the goal.  It is not a power trip, it is the only way we can learn.

Somewhere between chaos and squashing my children into conformity I'm trying to find a balance.
I want to make that glittery tree too--it's all in the timing.

Yes. . . mama. . .

Grandaddy and Harry Potter

Calvin was given an assignment from school.  What six people would you want at an imaginary dinner table.  They could be alive or dead, fictional or real.

He choose: himself, his Daddy, me, Mary, my Dad and Harry Potter.

I'd say he has his priorities on straight.  I might have chosen Jesus over Harry Potter--but I'm not ten years old.

Yesterday my email account got hacked.  My first indication of this was that I got "failure to deliver" status notifications from the two people in my address book who are dead.  My dad and my dear friend Ginny. Thanks hacker--for that reminder.  Good luck figuring out my new password.  It is so long and complicated that even I cannot possibly remember it.

Daddy and Ginny--I hope you are so busy singing with the angels that you have no time for email hacking worries.

The Prayers of Christmas Past

Our recital was Saturday afternoon.  There are students who always shine and I appreciate them.  There are also students who occasionally steal the show with an exceptionally awesome performance from the heart.  This year it was Kathryn playing Harmony of the Angels.  I was breathless.  She really got it. Hope's Mary Did You Know was also very special.  Congrats to everyone!

This morning I ventured out for groceries.  I bought grapefruit and yogurt in hopes to make up for five days of eating nothing but leftover sugar cookies and chex mix. I have this awesome grocery delivery service. I truly believe it is worth the extra nickel here and there. The thing is, in order to really take advantage of the service you have to actually order the groceries.  They don't read minds. The deadline was last night at 11:00 and I was practicing and forgot.  So I had to go to Kawalski's where I am tempted by much more than a nickel's extra in impulse purchases.

Last night after I missed the grocery order deadline I went down memory lane. I pulled up the last ten years of Christmas recital programs. Highlights of the ghosts of Christmas past haunted me. One of them was Scott playing the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. He begged me to play it, against my better judgement I let him. It wasn't in my curriculum for him and I didn't spend much time on it. It was his own baby. He nailed it. He might have been Beethoven himself hunched over the piano in concentration. Then there was Stefanie, Jackie, Grace and Cassy playing O Holy Night as a quartet.  Getting four giggly teen age girls to play as an ensemble was a great test of my coaching ability.

I loved playing the secondo for Aidan on Sleigh Ride, even if we took it ten counts too fast, but if I had to pick one moment from the last eleven years, it would be Stefanie singing "The Prayer" with Cassy accompanying her.  We had a group lesson that Friday night which served as a dress rehearsal. No parents. I had just learned that Katelyn and Kelsey were moving away. Grace and Jackie had just learned that their mother had breast cancer (happy to report she is cancer free).  Other students were having their own private issues. Every kid in the room had something going on. When Stefanie and Cassy started, I walked to the back of the studio pretending to be listening for the balance.  In truth, I was choking back sobs and hoping nobody would notice.

They captured the piece. Kids get it. Sometimes they just get loud and soft where you tell them to, but now and then they really get it.   When they do--you never forget it.

I pray you'll be our eyes, and watch us where we go

And help us to be wise in times when we don't know

Let this be our prayer, when we lose our way

Lead us to the place, guide us with your grace

To a place where we'll be safe

I pray we'll find your light, and hold it in our hearts

when stars go out at night, 

remind us where you are

Let this be our prayer, when shadows fill our day

Help us find a place, guide us with your grace

Give us faith so we'll be safe

And every heart that's broken will be mended

And we'll remember we are all God's children

Reaching out to touch you

Reaching to the sky

We ask that life be kind, and watch us from above

We hope each soul will find another soul to love

Let this be our prayer, just like every child

Needs to find a place, guide us with your grace

Give us faith so we'll be safe

Click here to go to youtube:  Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli--live (not Stef and Cassy, but a nice reminder. . . )