Aurelia

This past October, I wrote three verses to the hymn tune Aurelia (The Church’s One Foundation) by Samuel Sebastian Wesley. I wrote them in memory of my former organ teacher, mentor, and father-in-law, Brian Webb, who died at the end of August. I incorporated ideas from the hymns, prayers, and liturgy of the Episcopal Church, and Brian’s love for sailing, as well as traditions from his native New Zealand. As we approach Holy Week, I find myself thinking about all of those saints we have lost this past year--and finding comfort knowing that death is not the end, and that love always prevails.

In Memory of Dr. Brian P. Webb

For those who’ve gone before us, we lift our voice in song;

the choirs of angels welcome them to their heav’nly throng;

these saints will find their peace in the light of God above,

and know unending comfort within the arms of love.

Though darkness seems to cover our hearts in their distress,

the peace of Christ will come in returning and in rest;

the spirits of our loved ones will on the waves set sail;

the Son will shine upon us and show that love prevails.

So even at the graveside, we sing into the night—

a fearless Alleluia to magnify the light;

The dust of death is joined by the flowers of the land,

which prove the love that holds us in God’s almighty hand.

Organ Shoes

I have had the same pair of size 10 women’s Organmaster organ shoes since I began studying the organ my senior year at Susquehanna University in 1996. The leather has become very worn, but they have served me well for twenty years. They are like old friends who have seen me through many life events. Most recently, they graced my feet as I played for my father-in-law’s funeral in September.

This past fall, when my mother-in-law gave me Brian’s collection of organ music, she also presented me with his organ shoes. She had no idea that they would actually fit my long, narrow feet. I bought a special shoebox for them, and put them in my office at the church where I work.

I have been struggling with health and work issues over the past few months. Playing the organ always centers me, but I find it difficult to get to an organ to play. (The church where I work only has a Clavinova.) Somehow, on Wednesday, I found my way to the church where my wife and I are members. I took the box containing Brian’s shoes with me. It seemed like I was taking them home.

It did not feel strange at all when I put on Brian’s organ shoes; it felt right that they should now be on my feet. I sat down on the organ bench. I had this amazing feeling that I was returning the shoes to where they belonged, the organ. I was using the shoes to once again make music.

I just sat and played. First, the prelude I had played for Brian’s funeral. Then some Bach. Although the shoes fit me, they were a different style than the women’s variety. They had shoe strings instead of straps and buckles. The one-inch heels were longer, and the toes were broader. My pedaling was initially sloppy; my toes kept hitting more than one note at a time. But as I got used to the shoes, my pedaling improved. I went on to sight-read some Eric Thiman that a former organ teacher had given me. I finished by playing hymns in the Hymnal 1982 and the Schubert Sanctus and Fraction Anthem. The last thing I played was the Trisagion that had once meant so much to me: Holy God, holy and mighty, holy immortal one, have mercy upon us.

When I packed up my things, I put Brian’s organ shoes in my music bag. And I put my shoes in the shoebox and took them out to the car. The transition was complete.

Iraqi Poetry Reading

One thing I love about being an organist is the community of organists of which I have become a part. Helen calls them my “organ posse”. It’s a group that I can call upon if I have questions about music, instruments, professional concerns, etc. One of these organists is also a very good friend of ours. I admire him because he pieces together his living solely from music, which is quite a feat in New England. Besides two church jobs, he is also a piano teacher, a community chorus conductor, an Arabic musician and a member of an alternative band. Last spring, our friend invited us to a reading by an Iraqi poet, in English, which he was accompanying on the oud and the nye. Following is a description of my experience at that event.

We arrived right on time, but the room in the small art gallery where the performance was being held was full of people sitting on an assortment of folding chairs and stools. So we chose seats on the wide window sill, which was lined with quilts. Throughout the reading, the audience was quiet and attentive, except for an old Iraqi woman sitting in the front row wearing traditional clothing. Every so often, she would comment loudly in Arabic. The poet finally explained that she had recently arrived in this country.

After the reading, which lasted less than a hour, Helen and I wandered around the gallery, examining the works of art that were displayed and sampling the amazing Middle Eastern food, which had been catered. We were waiting our turn to talk to our organist friend, who was being congratulated by the Iraqi community, friends, and fellow musicians.  When we finally had an opportunity to speak to him, we told him that it was an amazing event and that the food was fabulous. Then we moved on to “How are you?” and “How was your day?” It felt good to be real.

Helen and I walked around a bit more, back to the room with the chairs and stools—which was now mostly empty of people. We looked at the large paintings which had been created by the poet; they contained bright colors and lots of eyes and other body parts. We didn’t want to leave before saying goodbye to our friend, but he was engaged in another conversation. We finally headed toward the door and got his attention.  I went to give him a hug; he kissed my cheek and I kissed him back. The old Iraqi woman saw us, and came toward me with her arms open and a huge smile on her face.  She somehow communicated that she also wanted a hug—so I hugged and kissed her.  Then she stepped back and started speaking passionately in Arabic. Our friend was trying to translate, but was struggling. So another woman rushed over to help. The old woman was saying to me, “You are so beautiful!”

For a brief moment in time, I forgot that we were almost late to the poetry reading. That we actually WERE late because the poet had started early. That we had struggled to find parking and had parked in an empty lot which had a sign promising to tow any car without a permit. That I had put a headband on at the last minute to make my hair semi-presentable after not liking what I saw in the mirror. For a brief moment in time, I felt beautiful, full of light, divine.

View From The Organ Bench

Yesterday I played the organ for a funeral service at the Episcopal church where my wife Helen and I are members. I was thrilled to have the opportunity to play, because I don’t have a pipe organ at the Methodist church where I am the music director. I haven’t played for a funeral since my father-in-law, also my former organ teacher, died this past summer. The black folder of music that I call my “funeral binder” was still full of the selections which I had carefully chosen for the half hour of prelude music before his service. And Brian’s face was smiling at me from the service bulletin which I had placed in the back pocket.

The timing of the service worked out perfectly; it was a small affair to start at 10AM, and my eight hour shift at the grocery store deli, in the same town, didn’t start until 11:30. I arrived shortly after 9 wearing my professional church musician clothes, carrying my deli uniform in a plastic grocery bag. I conversed briefly with the minister and funeral director and went about preparing for the service.

I did not know the older man who had died. He was a member of the church, and according to his obituary, work and church were his life. He was survived by one son, who was among the dozen or so people all gathered on the left side of the sanctuary. Sitting at the organ, I was far removed from the others. No one even glanced in my direction until the Commendation, when suddenly I found myself looking into the eyes of the son over the casket of his father. I tried to tell him, “It’s okay. I know the darkness and the pain of loss. I do not presume to know your grief, but I have also lost a father.” When the priest said, “Yet even at the grave we make our song,” I mouthed the response, “Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

I walked into the deli an hour later, and I felt different than I usually do. I held my head higher, and my shoulders were back. Playing the organ for the funeral service reminded me of who I am at my core, under the grocery store uniform. I am first and foremost a church musician. I wanted to tell all my coworkers about the wonderful thing that I had done that morning.

Around dinner time, the son of the deceased came to the deli. I did a second take and confirmed that it was he. As a coworker waited on him, I kept trying to make eye contact with him over the deli counter. I thought, remember me? I was the organist for your father’s service. I wanted to tell him I knew that he had said goodbye to his father that morning; I knew that he was doing the ordinary act of ordering deli meat on a very unordinary, dark day. I hoped that he could see the musician under my uniform, the caring and compassion. But he didn’t seem to recognize me. It was at that moment that I realized that people come to the deli counter with all types of burdens and losses.