Why I am here...

Boris Godunov changed my life. I am sure that the alcoholic composer, Mussorgsky would have enjoyed the irony of the fact that by setting his pen to paper, he was saving me... the daughter of an alcoholic.  As a sophomore in high school, I had just been taken back into foster care and I was in a new school surrounded by people I didn’t know or want to risk knowing. I was perhaps a little chubby, horribly awkward and I had the bad habit of accidentally washing my clothes with cherry chapstick inevitably left in one pocket. (still happens..) Algebra destroyed me, I missed my friends, my parents didn’t love me and at the ripe old age of 15 years, I was unbearably tired. 

I have forgotten so much of that time, though I eventually made beautiful friends and adjusted as most children are capable of doing. However, everything changed with my introduction to an ill-fated, slightly insane, 16th-century Russian czar. As the leaves began to crumble and the air took on a chill foreshadowing a brutal midwestern winter, our music class boarded a bus bound two hours west for Chicago. I sat staring out the window, wondering if the boy with the unsettlingly blue eyes would like me while a synopsis of Boris Godunov sat forgotten on my lap.

 Later that afternoon, I stared wide-eyed at my gilded surroundings from the luxury of my plush red chair as the lights flickered and dimmed at the Lyric Opera of Chicago. As the first strains of the orchestra picked up, all else left my mind, all troubles forgotten. By intermission, I had formed a link of empathy with my poor Boris and before the last notes died away, it was decided that I would be owned by this music.

Three Septembers later, I stood in the office of my new and first voice teacher and I was just as much an imposter as Dmitriy, the nemesis of my Boris. Luck and sheer naivety had gotten me into a university music program armed with only two songs, Caro mio ben and Bernstein’s Simple Song. Perhaps if I had known just a bit more, I would have never thought myself capable, but stupidity brings out the bravest warrior in each of us. I was hungry, I had nowhere to go if I failed and I simply wanted to sing.  

The path of my career has certainly been full of unexpected turns and steep drops. I have failed magnificently and I have succeeded quietly. Conceivably, I could have pushed harder and maybe found more of a place onstage, but being the center of attention never truly sat comfortably on my shoulders. Instead, as I became a competent musician, the fear of childhood and of closely avoided outcomes receded. Music made me independent, compassionate and powerful. 

Present day finds me thousands of miles from home on an island in the Aegean Sea. At times I look up to see a small boy in front of me holding his ukulele in the wrong hand, dirt under his nails, war in his past and his future unwritten. Other times I have an entire class in front of me, but I am drawn to the stubborn adolescent boy who refuses to participate. I watch him subtly until by the end of class I see that the light of interest has entered his eyes and his lips are mutely counting the beats of whole, half and quarter notes. Sometimes I look up to see a whole giggling choir squeezed into a tiny container, filling each molecule of space with their voices as they enthusiastically sing the spiritual I just taught them. And in a courtyard under a tree, a young girl sits, her rattling cough shaking her fingers from the neck of the ukulele while her intelligent eyes calmly absorb all. 

I am unapologetically rigid in my methods, expecting organization, respect and continuity. On these things I cannot compromise, because each time a student comes in front of me, I wonder if music and this child will choose each other. And if they do, I must make sure to arm this child with everything I can, so that when her journey begins, she will be stronger than I was. 

Why am I here?  Because they are. 

Side note... for any parents reading this post: please do not take your children to Boris Godunov for their first opera. I was a strange child and the outcome would likely not be the same. Try Mozart instead!   

Grief

At St Gregory the Great on the north side of Chicago, we have everything we need. There is a beautiful organ and a choir loft that is safe and structurally sound. There is a grand piano, an ability to pay a music director and a rotation of green altar plants. Near Christmas, the smell of pine permeates, while spring is wrapped in Easter lilies. On any given Sunday, lemon and wax scented air from a recent polish welcomes parishioners. We have toilet paper in the bathrooms and coffee in the parish center kitchen. We have warmth in the winter and and freshness in the summer. We have friends and family and we have community and strength. 

Halfway around the world, on the island of Lesvos, there is a tiny hidden Catholic church, the only Catholic church on the island. Set back about about fifteen meters from Mytilene’s busy Ermou Street, the Catholic Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary is obscured from view due to the larger neighboring buildings and a wrought iron fence. Upon entering the church, one leaves behind the bustle and brightness of the market street, exchanging it for the calm, cool sanctuary of the interior. Built in the middle of the 19th century, and home to relics of St. Valentine, the nave of this tiny church stretches ambitiously for all of about twenty square meters. Though renovated in 2013, there are bubbles of moisture below the plaster on the faded color painted walls and to certain parishioners.. the choir loft is NOT an option. But despite the diminutive size of the church and it’s humble features, the blissful acoustics are a blessing to any classical singer who happens to wander through.  

There is a Greek mass on Saturday morning and a French mass on Sunday, separated by both a day and by a world of experiences. The French mass finds African believers pressed close together in small but sturdy pews, while others stand, their eyes fixed to God, their shoulders brushing their neighbors and their tired feet forgotten. 

In Chicago, I sit in St Gregory’s each Sunday with everything I need and yet I furiously challenge God, I rail at complacent humanity and I curse blind faith. Meanwhile, those who have lost nearly everything, those who have faced terror and fear, those who have put their trust in a tiny boat and the grace of God..They are found each week on their knees in the little church in the heart of Mytilene. 

Recently a young man who was a refugee from the Democratic Republic of Congo, drowned while crossing the Mediterranean with hope for a chance at life. This afternoon, the Church of the Assumption hosted the funeral. As the choir shuffled music and warmed up, the coffin was brought in with shouts and sobs echoing beyond the open doors to the street outside.  At the conclusion of the ceremony as the coffin was removed, a raw keening wail rose, the visceral harshness merging with the recessional hymn. The hairs on my arms raised and my face was wet with my inability to remain detached. 

In the coming days and years, I will remember the ache of singing broken by sobs. I will carry their cries and wailing with me, accompanied by the sound of hands desperately grabbing the wood of a coffin. Their humanity and grief cannot be forgotten. 

There is so much beauty here; a late night guitar, the taste of the sea, the light of a beautiful friend, voices raised as one, a snoring ginger kitten. But reality is harsh and unrelenting. Tonight a child died in the safe zone outside Moria. How do we reconcile these things? What are we doing as Christians to change things and to ease pain? Better yet, what can we be doing as humans. These are not rhetorical questions. What am I doing? What are you doing? It is time to get to work.