The Beginning

This is Amy and me at her senior recital in college. She had graciously invited me to sing a couple pieces with her. We ended with my The Flower Song by Delibes. My favorite--quite possibly because in it, I got to sing as full-voiced and loudly as I ever have. Have a listen to it (sung by others) here.
Sam had never heard me sing before and he was stunned with what he heard. He couldn't get down from the balcony fast enough to hug me and look carefully at me. Later he said quietly to me, "I was thinking, that's my wife!"
I hadn't told Sam much about my singing experience before we were married. I wanted him to like me for me--not for my voice, not for the social benefit or any other thing. I wanted him to love me for who I am--how I talk, walk, think, speak, laugh, live. Of course, there are reasons for that.

My father was a high school music teacher. He had always wanted to be a nurse, but a college professor talked him into changing his major to music. He came from a musical family: a violinist father, pianist mother, and brother who both sang and played coronet. Daddy had an excellent ear and was quite talented: he sang and played brass instruments very, very well. He was also a charismatic conductor who was much loved by his students.
My mother used to be quite a gifted young singer. As a child in the inner city, she contracted tuberculosis and was taken to a sanitarium in the mountains. There, she lived for about three years. During that time, some do-gooders from the city would visit "the San," as it was called, and would hold concerts. One was a songwriter who wrote for Dinah Shore. He tried out his songs on the tuberculosis patients. If they liked the song, he would take it down to Dinah to record. My mother was the one who sang the songs first--for the TB patients.
Both parents were frustrated in their attempts to be musicians. Mother thought that if she married a musician, she would have unlimited support and opportunities for her singing. She couldn't read music and desperately wanted to learn how. My father, on the other hand, soon despised having to force his artistic sensibilities in order to make a living. Although his students loved him, he was easily frustrated with his job. He was also a demanding, irritable, and short-tempered teacher to his own family. Every one of us took music lessons from him. I can remember Daddy trying to teach me about tone row when I was only 7 years old. He was irate that I couldn't grasp the concept.
By the time they were 40 years old, Mother and Daddy had stopped dreaming about becoming famous, or living to make music. Life had become rather difficult: four children in private Christian schools, disillusionment with a career, too little money, social isolation. Rough days for all of us.
But even with all of those challenges, there was a good deal of happiness beaming out through the cracks. We used to sing as a family, in four-part harmony. Since there was already mother and sister to sing the soprano and alto lines in the music, I kind of sniveled along, not feeling terribly indispensible. We sang with my cousins when we got together. I was in awe of them because they were both beautiful and excellent musicians. But I hated to be in front of people and was so shy that I didn't like answering the phone, lest I be forced to converse with someone unknown to me. A friend, describing me during those years, referred to me as "a wallflower." I was.

I started attending a Christian high school. Since my older two siblings had always sung in the choir, and since I could read music well, I joined the choir. I'd been in the high school band since sixth grade, but I'd been able to hide behind an instrument. Choir was different. I stood in the back row next to the cool girls who could really sing well, and threw myself into the music. No one cringed when I sang, and I didn't think anyone could really hear me. I loved being in a group with the older students. How I looked up to them! There was JP, Janice, Lori, Kevin, and of course, my brother, who sang bass very well.
That first fall in high school, the music teacher announced that the choir would be performing Vivaldi's Gloria for the Christmas concert. She needed two sopranos and one alto soloist. There was quite a buzz about who would try out. I turned to Linda, who was sitting next to me and said, "I'd like to try out for that." I have no idea why I even entertained such an idea. I'd never sung a solo and would rather be shot than get up in front of anyone. But I had this unshakeable conviction that I could sing those solos, and sing them well. Who knows where that came from. I had never even sung in my bedroom with the door closed, or in the shower. My sister and I had sung together at the piano, but I typically opted just to accompany her and follow her lead. Somewhere inside of me however, I knew I could sing the solos.
Friday of the next week, I went to Miss Olaf's office to audition. I'd practiced these solos in the chapel of the girl's dormitory all week, where no one would hear me, so I knew the music well. As I sang it, Miss Olaf's eyes got bigger and bigger. At the end, she asked me where I'd been hiding my voice. It was a nice thing to say, and a pleasant way to tell me that I'd been given the solos.
On Monday I sang the solos for the choir. People went crazy. Their responses struck me as overkill for a boring Baroque solo that was nearly monotone. The fact that I had sung on pitch might account for some of their enthusiasm, but I ignored it. Mostly, I attributed the choir members' reactions as kind encouragements to me--a shy, self-conscious freshman.

The concert was to be on a Friday evening. We had come home from school and were eating an early dinner. My brother was telling my parents about the concert that evening. I piped up and told my father that I would be singing a solo with the choir that evening. Would he please come? I must have been a real liar as a child, because he thought I was making it all up. My brother vouched for the veracity of my story and urged my father to come. And so, when I stood up to sing that evening, looking into the darkened auditorium, I could see my father and mother sitting half-way back on the right. The solos went off without a hitch and I was relieved to have it over. My only thoughts as the lights came on was that it had truly been fun to sing a solo with the choir behind me, singing antiphonally with me. I intended to do it again someday and hoped Miss Olaf would let me. And I wondered what the boys thought--if it might help my chances of getting a date.

What stood out for me that evening was that my father was crying when he came up to me after the concert. Mother grabbed me and hugged me, and Daddy just kept crying and looking at me. I didn't know what was wrong. The ride home that evening was awkward with Daddy sniffling and mother gushing about the choir and how I had done.

We got home quite late and it took awhile for six people to get ready for bed. I was the last one to kiss Daddy and go up the stairs. He still hadn't said much to me and was sitting off by himself in his chair in the livingroom. "Was it okay, Daddy?" I just had to know.
Daddy started choking up. He apparently couldn't believe that the voice he'd heard had come from me, and was utterly touched, shocked, and delighted. He said three things to me that night that framed my approach to, confusion about, and struggles with my singing for years:
1. You are so great at this that you are really going to go places with your singing. Don't let anyone tell you you're not great.
2. Don't let this go to your head. Be humble.
3. You have an obligation to God to sing for Him. Your voice is not your own. You owe God something with a talent like this.

I went upstairs to bed feeling satisfied that I had sung my best. However, I lay awake for some time, trying to reconcile my father's injunctions and come to terms with this sudden, blinding alteration in my self-perception and experience. Why had Daddy been crying? What was the big deal? Why hadn't he told my other siblings that they had an obligation to God, or that they would be great? What was I supposed to do? How was I to act if I was as great as Daddy said I was, but couldn't let it go to my head, and had to use it for God? How do you do that? Do well, downplay it, and recognize it's neither mine or for me.
This is like sprouting an extra arm that I didn't ask for. There is some agenda for what I'm supposed to do with it, only I don't know what that is.

I was 14 years old.