Door Holder: My Dad

My eldest daughter sent a text this morning, with an audio file attached.

Practice run for Katie's wedding - still learning it!

I listened while driving down Route 60, the autumn colors poking through the morning sunshine and cool air circulating through the open windows of the Mazda. Acoustic guitar, gently strumming; my son-in-law's voice...

When I think of you and the first time we met 
And I heard the sound of your sweet, gentle voice...

And then my daughter joined in, and I was instantly with them, in the living room of their little home in Fayetteville, the acoustics bouncing off the high ceilings. My heart clenched, truly, in some powerful connection of music and metaphor and DNA; and then I did what, to me, is the only thing you can do in a moment like that.

I found the third part and I sang along.

I don't know how many people are like this - but we have a certain tribe, those of us who hear two-part harmony and are absolutely, utterly compelled to fill in the blank. It is inherently natural to me - it always happens, and I see it happen with my kids, and I know that this is a things deeply rooted in our souls.

My dad taught me this; or, at the very least, he held that particular door open for me to understand how to find that hollow spot and fill it.

Clyde Case did a lot of things in his life that trickled down to his only daughter. Growing up surrounding by farmland and two boy cousins - a year older and a year younger than me - I learned, early on, that there was nothing a boy could do that I could not. Baseball; football; dirt bikes; cutting Christmas trees; I kept up because I was told that I could, and I was given every opportunity. My dad instilled in me this notion that I could do and be anything that I put my mind to do.

He was the life of the party, my dad; the oldest of four sons, the most irreverent and silly. A leader. Charismatic. And a walking contradiction - the millworker's son, a Marine who worked his way out of the mill and into the white-collared office, into a sales job that took him to the land of cowboys and endless horizons and great success in the business world - who also could rebuild the engine of a '67 Mustang and sing Waylon Jennings songs at the top of his lungs.

My dad knew how to work a room, and I remember watching him do so and realizing that there was something in us that was a lot alike; I had that leader gene in me, and so I knew that in many ways I was going to be a lot like him.

And I am.

So there is a massive imprint on my life of my father, and his own life and his choices and character and the way in which he wielded his unique skills and instincts. Of course the impact of his life on mine is larger than one blog post.

But there is this thing, that is most prevalent in my life - that thing that put me in tears this morning as I drove down the highway singing harmony with the blood of my blood and her husband. My dad played music constantly for us; every time we were in the car, we listened to Beach Boys and Waylon and Wille and Merle and the Eagles and Linda Ronstadt. There were no cell phones then, and we all needed something to do in the car - so there was music. Eight-tracks, and then cassettes, worn thin because Dad would play them repeatedly while traveling, making a living across miles and miles of Texas. We sang, and we traded parts; sitting beside or behind my dad, I learned to fill in the blanks.

We did it on Sundays, too; standing side by side in the cool of the Methodist church, we'd lean into the wooden pew in front of us and sing the hymns, alternating parts. I could read music - he could not - but his ear could find the parts as well as I could, and we would cover the alto, tenor, and bass lines, over all four verses. I'm not sure what theology I ever learned from the Methodist hymnal - or if those moments were even close to being worshipful - but I sure learned how to sing parts.  

I remember singing with him at other times, too; for a church talent show one year, "It's Hard to Be Humble", in harmony. Anne Murray's "Cold I Have This Dance", and songs from Godspell. We learned "Operator" by the Manhattan Transfer with my brother, and we thrilled my grandmother with our rendition in church one day.

I learned this deep, soul-certain thing from my dad - this ability to live in the music and find a place to fit; to settle into the joy of vocal harmony that seemed to somehow connect us to the past, to something unnamed and just slightly hidden behind the current century. There was always a taste of the past in our singing, I think. My dad held that door open for me and pulled me through, running from room to room and helping me find my place - a place of comfort, a claim on what I could call mine.

There is a larger metaphor there, one that applies to the bigger picture. There is a willingness in me to forge ahead, to believe that there is a place for me in most things I encounter in life; and so I have - although still often wrapped in the cellophane of insecurity - a boldness in me that I trace back to my dad. I can be in charge; I can figure this out, I can find solutions and lead the way.

I can find the third.

That is an integral part of who I am. I think of my dad every time I look for the missing harmony part, grateful for the pulse and melody that lives in his DNA, that he placed in mine. And I continue to look for the places to find that missing part in the world around me - be it musical or ministry.

It's a grand thing, really, to look back and point to the power of influence and see the proof bubbling up in your everyday life. I'm so grateful for my dad, and the way he opened that door for me.

I love my dad.

Door Holder: Nancy Beach

I first visited Willow Creek Community Church around 15 years ago. My brother, Eric, was leading worship there, and when we visited Chicago in August of 1999, the timing couldn't have been better. The Leadership Summit was in session, and I had my first glimpse of a group of leaders and a movement that would profoundly impact my life in ways I could not have imagined during that hot August, clutching a three-month old David in my arms.

To be honest, I snuck into the Summit that year. I didn't see a lot of it; I remember meeting Matt Redman during a sound check, playing piano a bit while the band jammed. I was in awe of the church and the excitement pulsing through the halls.

I returned to Chicago a few years later, a new resident of Ohio and a volunteer at Fellowship Bible Church. I attended the Arts Conference, a now-defunct yearly meeting designed to encourage and equip artists in the church. I heard Bill Hybels speak life and vision to artists. I saw incredible workshops with inspiring leaders. I experienced powerful dramas and brilliant music. I met some cool people.

And I heard Nancy Beach.

Photo credit: Mark Beeson

Nancy was the leader of the Arts Ministry at Willow Creek. Part of the church since its beginning, she had grown up and into an influential role as a speaker, teaching pastor and leader. She appeared to be the creative, artistic partner to the senior pastor's pragmatic, level-headed persona; but she stood in a unique place of influence and empowerment that was hers alone.

I was drawn to her teaching, her understanding of her influence, and her calm, settled presence on the teaching platform. Her passion for artists and a matching vision for how the local church could and should nurture their souls as they leveraged their offerings - it was contagious.

Ironically, she wrote a beautiful post about folks who held the door open for her just a week before I started this series. Another influence, well-timed.

I heard Nancy teach at the Arts Conference several times. She hosted and shared messages at the Global Leadership Summit until she left her position at Willow Creek and moved into other venues. She wrote a book that opened my eyes to the restoration available to me as a woman, gifted in areas of leadership, coming out of a patriarchal, complementarian religious system.

And a few years into my work at PCC, I had an opportunity to connect personally with Nancy. I can't remember exactly how it happened - possibly through networking at the Arts Conference - but we calendared a phone appointment. She made herself available to me for a few questions about leading and managing the growth we were experiencing at PCC on our arts team.

I knew very little about anything I was doing that went beyond playing the piano and leading worship; my education and background were in teaching. I knew nothing about management and leading a team of adult volunteers.

But I knew Jesus, and I knew the depth of my passion. The pump was primed. I asked Nancy a few questions about building our teams and taking our musicians and artists to the next level - for their sakes, and for the mission of our church. She spoke into several different areas, but she made one comment that drilled deep into my heart. I asked just how to empower people, how to help them become great leaders. I have never forgotten her words.

You have to be willing to let them fail.

For a woman who flirted with codependency, had control issues and struggled with perfectionism, this was a hard concept. But - because of all those descriptors I just mentioned - it was my blind spot, and it was absolutely essential that I learn to do just that - something that seemed antithecal to what I believed leadership (and "good Christianity") to be about. It was not about failure, per se; it was about my willingness to let somebody fail.

She's a wise woman, that Nancy Beach. She held the door open for me as a woman leader, through her example, her writing, her teaching. Her influence, though her work, was powerful. But in that brief conversation - one I doubt she even remembers - she grabbed the doorknob and coaxed me through with one simple statement, into a place that challenged me to deal with my own junk in order to honor the leadership influence given to me.

It changed me.

From the beginning of my work at PCC, I told my boss / senior pastor, "I want to be your Nancy Beach." Her influence was that great; my aspirations and vocational drive grew out of my admiration and respect for her leadership. Thankful for her continued influence through writing and coaching, I'm still nurturing those aspirations and passion to be better.

But I'm no Nancy Beach; I'm just the best version of me that I can be. That calling became uniquely personal; I own it, and I get to live it.

Nancy set a great example. I'm glad she opened that door, for me and so many other women in leadership. May God bless her continued influence.

(And I sure wish she'd return to the Leadership Summit....)

Door Holder: Pauline Elizabeth Delong Case

The most important woman in my life, other than my mom and my daughters.

The most important blood relative, other than my parents and my brother.

My grandmother.

Now, that's a rather stern picture of Pauline Elizabeth Delong Case. Truth be told, I can't say I ever remember her looking like that. I'm sure she had her moments, and undoubtedly my granddad got a few of those looks.

But the deeply embedded resonance of my grandmother - 'Gommer', as we called her - is joy.

Laughter, always. Encouragement and laughter; Gomer was the kind of person you just wanted to be around.

I did, anyway. Growing up close to family, the only girl in a gaggle of boy cousins, she was home base for me. My refuge. She loved me, unconditionally - she proved it with Oreos in cookie jars and a door that was always open.

We lived just up the road, until I was 13. My aunt and uncle and two cousins lived in between us; Gom's house was a quick coast on my bike down the hill. Close enough for me to hear her car crunch the gravel as she turned into her driveway at 11:20 at night, finishing her shift at Polk Center where she cared for those who were institutionalized due to mental health issues. I would stay up late, reading under the covers with a flashlight, waiting for my grandma to cruise through the Pennsylvania night air.

There was something unique and wonderful about growing up so tightly knit. I wonder, now, how all the adults felt about it - but as a child, I thought it was wonderful.

We'd hang out on Gom's porch, watching the neighbors come home, talking about anything and everything. There was always a pot of coffee on and she was always good for conversation.

Gom and Uncle Dave

I think that's what I remember most; that there was never a time when Gommer wasn't present. She never shooed anyone away. She never had a book she'd rather read, never needed 'alone time'. I do recall that she loved watching 'Wheel of Fortune' most weeknights and 'Hee Haw' on the weekends, and in her later years she loved 'Ellen'.

She'd sing, "One day at a tiimmmmeee, sweet Jesus..."

'Because He Lives' touched her deeply; we'd sing in harmony.

She would scratch my back, somehow knowing that it was my love language.

She said, "Bethie, you're my favorite granddaughter", and she said the word like "fav - or - RIGHT", which I always found precious and slightly peculiar.

I was her favorite granddaughter. I was deeply loved by her, and I never doubted it. That's a rare thing, I know; to be absolutely sure of an unconditional love. It drenched me, in my early years; and after Lonnie and I moved to Ohio and we could make the two-hour trip to see her, I tasted and saw that love in action with my kids.

Gom and I, with Sarah, Haley (my cousin's eldest), and Shannon

I miss her terribly. One of the deepest regrets of my life is that I failed to grasp the seriousness of her illness when she developed cancer. It was immaturity, denial - an unwillingness to accept the notion that this vibrant woman who was absolutely necessary to my life could get sick. 

It seemed improbable. Impossible.

But she did get sick. One of my most powerful, later memories of her is on a visit to the hospital, when she was first diagnosed. We made small talk for a while, and then she took my hand.

"Gommer's sick," she said. "Gommer's really sick."

She held the door for me in untold ways, as a strong woman whose influence on my life is immeasurable. She was a safe place as I grew up, the stereotypical grandparent who indulged me and wiped my tears when my parents did their job and disciplined me. She showed me unconditional love that never, ever wavered.

She wrote me letters throughout all my life, her wild cursive telling tales of going to town and fixing dinner, updates on my granddad and the dachshund, Rocco. She opened the way for a grand, glorious love that asked nothing in return. She loved me, just because I was her granddaughter.

(Her favor-right).

She cracked the door open for me when she fell ill, but I didn't know how to walk through it. I couldn't cope. Instead of spending every single possible moment with her, I stayed at home and tried to pretend it wasn't happening.

When it did happen - when my dad called and said, She's gone...Gommer's gone, my heart cracked in two. Processing the loss and grief and ugly reality that death meant forever taught me painful lessons. I'd never lost someone so close, and I discovered the difficult, deliberate truth that you can't hide from death. 

I didn't walk through that door with her, but when my dear friend Bob Pino neared the end of his life, I remembered the lesson I'd learned from Gommer. So I stayed. I didn't look away. And when Bob walked into eternity, I think he probably found my grandmother and let her know that I'd learned my lesson. 

She taught me well. I miss her, but I'll see her again. 

My heart longs for that day. 

Door Holders: Tony Stoddard

"You're running a little behind on this door holder thing..."

My mom, a few days ago.

She's right; I've been busy, and choosing to do other things. But I have more people to tell you about, so here's the next one in the series.

This guy.

I could probably fill a book with all the ways that he has changed my life. It could get all cheesy up in here. But to focus on how he has held the door open for me in a very specific way, let me tell you about what we did today.

We spontaneously decided to close the music store today. Apologizing for any inconvenience, we realized that it had been about six weeks since Tony had a single day off. He's been going non-stop, seven days a week - working the store Monday through Saturday, and serving at church pretty much every Sunday. He never stops, always busy will some sort of project, along with work and home maintenance stuff.

So today was the day. We decided to work together, and so we did; together, we moved a big pile of dirt to fill in the sides of a newly-poured concrete slab (skateboarding son is quite happy). We cleared out a bunch of stuff in the yard. We did about 80% of a needed repair on a broken outdoor lamp. We hacked weeds and moved lawnmowers and hauled gravel and all sorts of stuff.

Tony's one of those guys who knows stuff. You know the kind; if something breaks, they know how to fix it. If you're building something, he knows how it should be done. We laugh, sometimes; he says I'm not good with the relational stuff. I need you to help me with that. And it's true; and I do. But pretty much everything else in the world? 

He knows.

Water stops working? Ceiling fan too noisy? Roof leaks? Car falling apart? Pipes sluggish? Printer dead? Video camera stuck?

The man can do anything. Anything.

So today, as we worked together, I helped him do some of those things, and - like he always does - he held the door open for me, patiently and graciously, and showed me the right way.

We moved load after load of dirt, added some gravel and then he said, Let's tamp this down. You get in the Suburban....

And he coached me, like the guy guiding the planes at the airport, and I drove back and forth and back and forth until we got those narrow rows of dirt put into place.

We worked on the yard lamp, taking it apart bolt by bolt and figuring out the problem. Before we unscrewed the bottom cap, he pulled out his pen knife. You need a witness mark...see here? Notch it here and here so we know how to put it back together.

We mixed epoxy and I help the lamp while he glued; he talked about the process the entire way, making sure I knew exactly what he was doing.

I thought about him all afternoon, about the things that he's taught me to do. One of our best dates was the night we installed a water filter under my old house.

Right now, he's down in the basement; sounds like he's teaching himself to play the violin. 

Tony is a rare breed of man these days. A friend told me that when my son David was hanging at her house with a couple other kids, they needed to do some work. The other boys gave a half-hearted effort; David grabbed the tools, jumped in and did it. She praised him, and he said something like, "You live with Tony...you learn things..."

If you're fortunate enough to be around him for any length of time, he'll teach you. He'll be patient and kind and gracious, and at times you'll wish he would just hurry up and quit over-explaining, but he's going to take his time and teach you. 

Tony is the best kind of door holder, because what you'll learn from him sticks forever, and it will serve you well, all the days of your life.

He's been the best for me. 

Last night after a church gathering, I gave him a hug as we prepared to load up our separate gear in our separate cars and head home. One of our friends watched him as he walked away.

"You're a lucky woman, Beth."

Don't I know it.

Door Holders: Donna Ferrere

This is me.

Fourth grade. Probably nine years old.

I needed a door holder in the fourth grade.

I wrote about it first here, after I got back from San Antonio last summer. Now I recognize that it was trauma I experienced that year. I think that's where I began to cry in the morning, telling my mom I didn't want to go to school. I couldn't articulate why, exactly; how does a nine-year old talk about betrayal and that gnawing realization that someone has the power to slam doors in your face and determine the course of your interaction with society? Albeit a small society of fourth-graders.... Still, it matters.

It was a difficult year, and I turned to the adult in the room for help. She rose to the occasion, as I recall.

Donna Ferrere was her name. She taught the entire fourth grade at our little country elementary school. I remember her short haircut, warm smile and a love of reading that she passed on to me. I think I found a deeper solace in books that year, and I know that I came to understand just how powerful the encouragement and support of one person could be. I think Donna Ferrere was the one reason I endured fourth grade; in fact, I triumphed, if you consider straight A's, and scholastic achievements and a passionate love of books a win.

I do.

I'm forever grateful for this teacher. She held the door open for me to believe in myself and to stand against devastating social pressures; I believe she propped the passageway open long enough for me to recover and walk through under my own power.  She believed in me. It made a powerful difference.

Again, I'd love to know what my mom remembers about that year; perspective is everything. But Donna Ferrere will always be a champion to me.

PS A note about my groovy fourth-grade style; how about those Lennon glasses? And the shirt - I remember that blend of polyester and cotton so well! It was a body suit, and no - I'm not kidding - it snapped in the crotch and stayed perpetually tucked in. My mom, a master seamstress and extraordinarily creative, sewed it for me. 

So cool.

#31Days

Door Holders: Diane Cornelison

In his book The Five Dysfunctions of a Team, Patrick Lencioni says that most everybody is fairly good at having conversations - even about conflict - that give you an honest 90%. It's in that 'last ten percent', Lencioni says, where reality happens, trust is built and organizational health begins.

My workplace has adopted this concept and "having a last ten percent conversation" is a common axiom for all of us. It's an important step towards relational health and functionality.

After I heard this teaching, I realized that someone else had taught me the value of sharing the last ten percent many years ago. I didn't realize the importance at the time, but Lencioni helped me connect the dots. It added to my great appreciation for my friend Diane Cornelison.

Celebrating Christmas in 1999

Diane and I met because our husbands at the time were both pursuing an education in ministry. They were on different tracks, coming from very different experiences. But Diane and I were both in the throes of raising kids; we each had three girls, and we each added a son to the family only months apart. We lived a few blocks away from one another in a small, conservative town in central Texas.

I was always in awe of Diane. She and her husband, Dennis, were disciplined. They were creative. They could built entire houses out of scavenged wood. They up cycled like crazy, way before it was cool. Diane planted an herb garden and brewed tea that we would share on her Victorian couch, surrounded by beautiful antiques and glassware. She let me nap in the living room when needed. She organized her kids - and mine - to clean, to do chores without complaining, to keep things tidy.

She loved Jesus, and she loved the church - although the church we attended at the time did not demonstrate their love in return. I witnessed hurtful things done to them in the name of righteousness, but she and Dennis shrugged it off and kept pursuing Jesus as per their calling, with no bitterness or rancor. 

I was always slightly intimidated by Diane, as she seemed to have it all together in ways I did not. Diane organized everything in life; I lost things on a daily basis. She homeschooled her kids and managed it with aplomb and order; I could barely keep my kids clothed. 

Diane organized a baby shower
when I was pregnant with Sydni.

We were very different, and yet she was a good, good friend to me, in ways that I failed to fully appreciate at the time. Diane understood recovery, and she understood people and faith in a way that I didn't quite comprehend at that stage of my life. She demonstrated hospitality in the deepest, most holistic sense of the word. 

These days, I'd give just about anything to have her living a stone's throw away again. I'd walk across those railroad tracks to see her every day if I could.

During those few years in Joshua, Texas, we shared a lot of things- time, meals, joys and sorrows - and kids. Also, stuff. Clothes, dishes, toys. 

And a stroller.

Diane let me borrow a stroller one spring. I used it and, in typical fashion, kind of lost track of it. It was just in the backyard - but I kept overlooking it. One day, Diane mentioned the stroller. I don't mind you borrowing it - but don't leave it outside, okay? It's getting rained on. It'll rust. It'll get ruined. Just don't leave it outside...

I heard her, and I took her seriously, but in a manner that still remains an often shameful part of my daily existence, I forgot. I got busy with other things, and I didn't prioritize her request, and some part of my mom's teaching to Take Care of Things That Belong to Other People fell completely out of my brain, and the stroller stayed in the yard.

Getting rained on.

Diane came over a few days later and said, Hey. I'm taking the stroller. I asked you not to leave it in the rain and you didn't and that really bugs me, that you didn't hear me and didn't take care of my stuff. 

She didn't yell. She didn't cry or make a scene. She just told me the truth, and she was a little upset, but she said her piece and that was it. 

And I was mortified.

In hindsight, it was a little thing; but I had big issues. I was compelled to be perfect at all things. I believed it was expected of me, to be perfect (it was part of the religion that was all around me, but that's a completely different story...) 

I thought I was supposed to be perfect, which is completely unreasonable and untenable, of course; so I had a lot of good coping mechanisms - one of which was to hide from the things in which I could not manage perfection. I was good at avoiding conflict.

Diane didn't go for that. She never shied away from the truth and she wasn't afraid to be honest. Diane called me on something I did wrong. She stated her case. It wasn't a big deal for her - she was much further along in her journey of acceptance than me! - and that was the end of it. We were still friends. She forgave me. It was nothing in the grand scheme of things, and our friendship seemed fine.

Diane and her family in 1999.

But it stung in me for weeks. Months.

I simply did not know how to cope with having failed a friend, even in this simple way. I didn't know what it was like to be found wanting, but forgiven. This notion of being vulnerable in front of someone, of having it all on the table, of the "secret" revealed - that I wasn't perfect - was devastating to me. (Ridiculous, I know. But still...)

The emperor had no clothes. I didn't know how to cope. 

But Diane did. 

This was my first true taste of grace. Blatant, in-your-face grace. 

Diane showed me how to be a friend, in the truest sense. Diane was the person who said all the right things - both the easy words and the harder ones - when I called to tell her about the collapse of my marriage to my kids' dad. And today, Diane is the one person that I long for, when I wish I could curl up on the couch with a cup of tea in front of a fire and talk, honestly, about everything. 

I am thankful that last October, we visited Texas and got to do just that.

Diane held the door open for me to experience grace and true friendship in a way that was new and necessary. I learned to trust her, because of that last ten percent stuff - along with everything else she offered. And because of that, the pump was primed for me to appreciate the value of trusting more friends along the way. She reset expectations for me when it came to friendship, and I'm better for it.

Thank you, Diane, for being a door holder for me. And a friend.

Diane and I, catching up, last October at her home in Texas.
So much love. 

Door Holders: Millie Bark

I spent some time this morning with my friend Hope, a woman with a passion for people and worship and the church who has challenged herself to stretch musically, spiritually, and as a leader. She's growing, and it's a beautiful thing.

We talked today about how to create intimacy in smaller worship settings. Both veterans of some very special Wednesday night gatherings in the not-too-distant past, we worked on ways to be intentional about making space for singing that felt authentic and right. My experience helps me enter into that space easily and relatively quickly; Hope asked, How do you do that? How can I learn to do that?

/ / /

Yes. That's me. Sigh. 

Miss Scott was my 2nd grade teacher. At the annual school music program, I had a solo; "Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo".

But what really mattered that year was this: I met Mrs. Mildred Bark, and I began piano lessons.

I'd love my mom's commentary here, to find out her perspective on whether or not I practiced, on how much of a burden it was to drive me down into town every week to sit in Mrs. Bark's studio and play for her. I need my mom's memory to help here, because I don't remember much at all about my behavior that first year.

But I do remember Mrs. Bark's house, a huge (to an 8-year old) mansion on Elk Street. She rented out rooms to exotic, interesting Young People; theater folks. College kids. The young, single man who was teaching music at the local high school. There was always a mysterious, enticing buzz behind the double doors that led to her kitchen and living area; drinks and cigarettes and loud laughter. Occasionally the sound of tears. I only ever went back there once.

Past the double-door entry way was a small table with a round bowl sitting on top. Both antiques, always clean; the weekly check was to be placed in the bowl. I'd wait in a chair outside her study, and when the student before me finished, Mrs. Bark would welcome me in. Her gravely, smoke-studded voice greeted me and I walked into a haze to sit at the small spinet that faced the wall.

She sat behind me, always, at a drop-front desk; her long black cigarette filter perched between two fingers. Mrs. Bark was always dressed well, always composed, always bejeweled. She would scrawl practice notes in my psychedelic spiral notebook in a fancy, authoritative cursive.

In hindsight now, I realize that she must have been an utterly fascinating woman. A widow, she'd been active in several musical pursuits in our little town. Her husband, the late Mr. Charles Bark, had also been in the arts. After his death she taught students like me, and she took in boarders, and she moved in some artistic circles of which I - a little country girl - was completely unaware. She was old, to my eyes - but as I remember now, she must have been a relatively young widow.

I would very much like to know her, now.

So Mrs. Bark got me started, sitting behind me for those 30-minute segments of musical education. And I can't remember a thing she did or said, but I remember the utter joy I discovered, my fingers finding a way to play "Baby Elephant Walk" and "Alley Cat". I remember dragging a John Denver songbook to her, a few years in, and being excited about picking out the chords to "Annie's Song". I remember when, at the age of 11, I nearly gave up because "Brian's Song" - and the key of A - nearly did me in, but Mrs. Bark and my mother pushed me through.

I don't know this other than to have heard my mom say it, but I believe it must be true: Mrs. Bark let me make it up as I went along. She let me improvise, play to the beat of my own drummer. I suppose there must have been some talent there, along with a disciplined mom who made sure I practiced, but undoubtedly, the way Mrs. Bark taught me as a beginning piano student unlocked the key to a deep understanding and passion for the language of music that has served me well.

Oh, so well.

/ / /

Today, after some conversation, Hope and I moved into the Big Room at the church. I sat at the baby grand piano and demonstrated some chords; the resolution of the suspension in the melodic intro of "Cornerstone". The open fifth of "I Am Set Free" that could lead to an easy key change for "Be Thou My Vision". The way a spoken word transition could slip freely into the space between changing keys; the common tones between C and E and how they could become a fulcrum for change.

I talked to Hope a little about how it works for me, playing and singing.

"It is like breathing. It is a language, and my fingers know it as well as they know the enunciation of spoken words. The template of key changes is like changing dialects or accents; this is English, familiar - and then up a half step, that's like French. And maybe now in 'E', that's Russian...it is all the same meaning, just a different voice, and it means the same to me, save the different perspective. I just speak it, this language, and it is as simple as breathing in and breathing out. It just is."

I kept talking, in part just to hear myself talk, because I'd never really said such things out loud much. But I was thinking about Mrs. Bark already, about this post, well-aware that I needed to find some words.

So here they are: To play the piano, for me, is to give utterance to the deepest part of my soul - and yet it is, in some ways, no different than speaking a simple sentence of greeting. Or of love. Or of sadness, or joy. Maybe that is why the moments of 'worship' - of singing with a directed audience - are so powerful and potent for me. Imparting emotion, sharing thoughts, revealing truth - the piano is as much a tool as my voice.

Sometimes, it is my voice.

My fingers speak. They are my ability to communicate like anything else, whether it be my waving hands or my torrential words - or my fingers shaping a C9 chord.

And all this happened because somehow, Mrs. Bark unlocked that method of disclosure in that tiny, smoke-fllled room on Elk Street. She wasn't the last, but she was the first to open the door of this miracle of sonic language.

Mrs. Bark was a door holder for me, in a way that changed my life. 

And I am, daily, grateful.