November 13: Poem for Dave, Maya Angelou, "Still I Rise"

Tonight, after receiving the news of my friend's death, I thought of Maya Angelou's poem "Still I Rise."

On the day that Angelou died, I was driving home from work, listening to a tribute on National Public Radio.  The segment ended with Dr. Angelou reciting this poem.  As her voice filled my car, I was overcome.  I started sobbing.  Eventually, I had to pull over to the side of the road until I collected myself.

I will never forget that afternoon, and Angelou saying those last lines of her poem, like a victory chant, with joy and determination.  I rise.

Saint Marty dedicates this poem tonight to Dave.

Still I Rise

by:  Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Amen, Dr. Angelou

December 19: Sobbing, Church Musicians, Stress

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call.  He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

Scrooge is still a mess on Christmas morning, after his night with the Spirits of Christmas.  He doesn’t know what to do, where to begin.  He’s laughing, crying, dancing, sobbing.  He knows he’s still a broken person, but he has the chance to redeem himself now.  He will make mistakes on this road to redemption, but he will always have a Christmas carol in his heart.

This time of year for church musicians is stressful.  I have been an organist/accompanist for nearly 27 years now.  That’s 27 Christmases, with an average of two to three worship services each year; two children’s programs a season; and at least two or three extra rehearsals per week, from November through December 25.  That’s a lot of hours.  By the time I sit down with my ham sandwich on Christmas morning, after I have played my last carol and sung my last chorus of “Joy to the World,” I’m sometimes drained of cheer.  I get through the rest of the day on eggnog and the TNT marathon of A Christmas Story.

My biggest worry this week is the upcoming Christmas Eve/Christmas Day church services.  There’s this whole pressure for music to be extra good, extra special on those days.  I have a children’s program at 8 p.m. on December 24, plus two solos that were just handed to me in the last week.  No matter how much I practice the music, I never feel quite good enough for the occasion.  After close to 30 years of being a part of this yuletide insanity, I still suffer from low self-esteem when it comes to my musical abilities (or is that low elf-esteem at Christmas?).

On the flipside, I know that, come noon on Christmas, nobody is going to remember a single bloody mistake I make at the organ or piano.  Unless I become catatonic at the keyboard or decide to do a bad Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation, I should be fine.

I think we put way too much pressure on ourselves at Christmas.  We strive for perfection.  Perfect music.  Perfect gift.  Perfect card.  Perfect mashed potatoes.  It’s an impossible goal.  I willscrew up on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  I will probably duplicate a gift with someone.  I will burn the sugar cookies.  I will forget to send a card to Uncle Ned in Arizona because I thought he was dead.

Christmas is not really about perfection.  Christmas is messy.  Mary was an unwed, pregnant teen.  Jesus was born in a barn, with dirty animals and manure.  The shepherds probably drank out in the fields; they certainly didn’t shower.  Herod sent out soldiers to kill babies in Bethlehem.  The nativity narrative is full of unpleasant smells, unpleasant sights, unpleasant people, and unpleasant events.

The true miracle of the holiday is that, out of this whole broken mess, came the Son of God.  So I’m not worried too much.

Saint Marty will take care of the mistakes this Christmas.  God will take care of the perfection.

Time to get dirty