Theaters make me sad.

And I never remember that till I get in one. It's not a depressed kind of sadness, exactly. Wistful, maybe?

In my younger days, I spent a lot of time in theaters. Tryouts. Rehearsals. Backstage. Onstage. I'm never in a theater that I don't wonder what the acoustics are like. Could I "hit the back of the room" here?

I was the first voice major my instructor, Dr. James Russey, ever had who sang more than the required number of recitals. Technically, voice majors were supposed to sing one a quarter. Most had to be coaxed to sing one a year. On average, I sang three a quarter. And if I could have mastered more sooner, I would have sung more often.

My last quarter as a music major, Dr. Russey wanted me to sing German arias. So I did. He wanted me to try out for NATS (National Association of Teachers of Singing) competition. So I did. I had sung my three recitals and wanted to sing another. He said I needed to sing something other than my NATS music. So I did.

When my jury came around (kind of like a final exam for music lessons. You sing a song in front of your teacher, and anyone else in the department who wants to attend.), he wanted me to sing something new. Well, I didn't have a whole lot of time, but I agreed. I chose an aria by Vincenzo Bellini, "Sogno D'Infanzia."

Now, if I were a sane person, I would have chosen something short and sweet. And easy. But no. This aria is nine pages long. None of the verses repeat. Normally, even arias have a chorus that remains constant. Not so with this one. Different words each time. Most songbooks have an English version (not a literal translation, but close) printed under the Italian. Absent. I had planned in my "spare time" to find an Italian to English dictionary and translate to the best of my ability. The range is an octave and a third. There are octave jumps in the chorus, but it's all very legato (in a smooth, even style without any noticeable break between the notes).

Let's just say, "Mary Had A Little Lamb," it ain't.

Dr. Russey had, for a couple of quarters, been trying to see how I handled failure. He would insist that I do trills I didn't feel prepared to do. Or sing arias I would never have chosen for myself. I had always found a way to make it work. That accomplished two things: it impressed him, and it made him push the envelope even further.

This was as far as the envelope would go. Since I didn't translate the words into something I could relate to, I had trouble remembering the words. And worse than that, I had trouble making the song my own. I didn't carry it off with authority. I wasn't genuine. I didn't connect with it. In the end, I had to read the words over my accompanist's shoulders. I hit all the notes. Technically it was correct. But I hadn't done the song justice. And it's the last time I sang solo for anyone. (Until very recently.)

I guess I don't handle failure very well.

So, I didn't grow up to be the next great Wagnerian soprano. And I guess I'm okay with that. But there's something else that haunts me.

Pick up any piece of sheet music. Take a good look at it. What does that do for you? What does it mean to you?

Even if you can read it, does it move you? Can you hear what the composer intended? Do you get a sense of what he or she felt? What she or he wants you to feel?

I've spent most of my life enamoured with the fact that I could take black notes on a page and breathe life into them. I could interpret notes into feelings. It was amazing. And empowering. And inspiring. I've always been a little shy, but the spot light does a curious thing. You know people are out there, but you can't see them looking at you. You can't read their faces and judge how you're doing, so that falls away. I walked out fearless. My only job was to mediate between the composer and the audience. And I could do that. It was actually more than something I could do well. It's who I was.

I never felt so much myself as when I was standing alone under all those lights, singing my heart out. Even though I couldn't see the audience, I could always feel when I reached them. I knew when they were in the moment with me. Disbelief suspended. Lost in imagination. I loved painting a portrait with words and melody, and knowing they could see it.

I didn't actually stop singing because of that final jury. There were many reasons, but I've felt like that part of me was lost, and I've grieved over that.

Yet, in some ways, it is not entirely lost to me. We are all called to that very vocation.

The Bible you study? It's makes about as much sense to some as sheet music. They are words on paper. And even if they can read them, they can't quite grasp what the Composer intended. (See John 6:60 and surrounding.)

I need to know the Word. I need to make it my own. Not in the sense that I alter it, but that I allow it to alter me. I need to be able to carry it out in my life with some sense of mastery and authority and artistry - so that it's who I am (Ecc. 13:12, Gal. 2:20). To paint a portrait of Jesus with my voice, my countenance, my actions, my life. I can't read the faces of others to judge how I'm doing. My job is to mediate between my Lord and the world. To walk into the spotlight fearless. Not because I'm so great, but because the song is the greatest and most beautiful the world has ever heard.*

Even if you can't carry a tune in a bucket, you can grace the ear and the heart of a longing world with divine melody. Do it justice. Study the score. Hide it in your heart and sing it as only you can.

Amy M. Smith
Georgia

*(I think those whom Jesus was speaking of in Matthew 11:11 are greater than John the Baptist in the sense that they have a greater revelation/covenant than he had.)

Before we were married,
your father and I
pondered the legacy we would leave you-
The parts of our heritage
we would hand down,
the things we would choose to do differently.

We discussed the changes we would make
So that we could be the kind of people
who would love and nurture,
train and protect you.
The kind of people God would have us to be
that we might be good examples to you.

We knew that we wouldn’t be perfect,
that we would make mistakes,
and that even if we were the best of parents,
you might not choose to follow our lead.
Of course, we prayed
God would open your hearts,
And you would endeavor to serve Him.

In all of our imaginings
we never would have guessed
that you would be the ones
to leave a legacy to us.

Now, in your absence,
we have to decide
how your lives have affected us.
Will we say that you left us empty or full?
Were you a tragedy or a blessing?

We have decided
that we can’t bear
for others, or for ourselves,
to regard you as a sorrowful event in our lives.

Your little lives have blessed us in ways
we are just beginning to understand.

You have made heaven a more immediate reality.
We have come face to face with the great uncertainty of life
And the greater certainty of Gods grace and love.

When Christ was in anguish,
wishing His cup of sorrow would pass
He said “It is for this purpose I have come.”
What if it was for this purpose we have come?

We have a choice -
to become bitter and hardened and defeated by our loss
or to become open and softened by what we have been given.

This may be the trial of our lives
and the way we choose to go on
will reflect our love and obedience to God,
in the same way that your lives
would have been a reflection
of your love and obedience to us.

If you had lived long enough to see us pass,
we would have wanted you to carry on in our love for you.
To go on with your lives,
To hold on to God for strength,
and to find comfort in the faith
That we would meet again in heaven.
I’m sure you want no less for us.

God has given us the love and desire to nurture,
but the natural recipients of those gifts
are with Him.

Your legacy will be that love
Given to God,
to each other,
to your siblings,
and to others.

May we truly love more deeply
and completely
Because you have taught us how fragile this life is.

May we never take others for granted,
because we have learned
they are not.

May the love and devotion that we feel for you
Manifest itself in our love for others
So that the love we show
is our memorial to you…

And the legacy
You leave us.

Amy M. Smith, February 24, 2000

For John Matthew, who was due October 17, 1997 but died February 24, 1997
And Vanessa Lauren, who was due February 24, 2000 but died August 18, 1999

***********************

I can't believe it's been eight years since I wrote that. I still have baby things I bought for Vanessa. I couldn't bear to part with them, and I couldn't bear to see them. One day I'll have to take them out of the attic and deal with them, I suppose.

My husband, Jim and I used to go to a support group called Parents Healing Together. Sometimes in the midst of all those people I had grown to love and care for, it just hit me that our babies were together. They still are. I can't see them, but they can see each other. While I needed the comfort and support of their parents, our babies were and are not in need or want of anything. They are comforted and in the presence of God.

I still miss them. I still really wish that they were here with me now and in heaven later. I don't understand why God allowed it to happen this way. But He did. I can't choose what happened. I can only choose how I deal with what happened.

I want my life to glorify God. Even the painful parts of my life, I believe He can use for His glory. I can't say that I fully understand how. I wonder if those dreams seemed cruel to Joseph as he was in jail because of Potiphar's wife's unjust accusation? You wouldn't know it from the way he lived his life. I wish I had his steadfast perseverance. I get distracted and discouraged.

I wish I had Jesus' sense of purpose. He was never confused or misguided. I can't say that of myself. He lived the perfect godly life. He is the example of submission and obedience. I fall way short of that.

Of course, He lived that perfect life for my sake and for yours. It's because we aren't perfect that His perfect obedience - His perfect sacrifice - was necessary.

I've heard so many people ask, "Why didn't God spare my baby?" I don't know the answer to that question. But I do know that for my sake He did not spare His own Son: " What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" (Rom. 8:31-32)

Because of the great love He has shown me in giving His Son for me, and in being for me when I have done nothing to deserve it, He deserves my trust and obedience even when I don't understand His intentions. He deserves to be glorified even when my heart is breaking. Even when my will isn't represented and it doesn't seem fair to me. My debt is always more than I can pay, and He is faithful to forgive it.

"I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me." (Gal. 2:20)

I want that to be true of me.

On the day of judgement, I don't want to look at my Lord and say that I stumbled over what I lost. I want Him to be able to see where His sacrifice made a difference in me; that I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.

He deserves a better life than I have lived for Him.

He has mercifully offered me an alternative.

Amy M. Smith
Georgia

Walking Home
(posted 6/16/08)

Jim and I recently went to Harwich, Massachusetts for his father’s 70th birthday party. Since Jim was a boy scout and spent 20 years in the Marine Corps, I’m sure that within a few minutes, he could throw everything he needed for the trip into a duffel bag, hop in the car, and drive from our driveway to his parents’ house in 18 hours flat. No muss, no fuss, no frills: mission accomplished. Let me tell you what I bring to our travels. I add 6 hours travel time, an overnight hotel stay, an extra day driving, every suitcase we own, a hanging garment bag, a backpack with a first aid kit, vitamins, books, paper, and a flashlight, fix-a-flat, a camera and more film than one human being should use in a year, the camcorder, my pillow and a radio (because I can’t sleep without them), and a cooler…and a towel to put under the cooler in case of condensation or leakage. And then of course there are the stops. I know it must seem to Jim that every time we get back on the road, I need to stop again. I am not an efficient traveler. I am a high need traveler. Luckily, Jim is patient with me. So, my travel habits would not be a problem, except for one thing…

Life is a journey. As a Christian, my road is referred to as strait and narrow. The word for strait is not ruler straight, but dire straits, strait. True to my nature, I tire easily and venture off to the rest stops. Places that always look better from the road, whose signs always promise things I can never find. Self-reliance advertised life without rejection: selfishness had a gift shop you wouldn’t believe, but I never found anything I could afford. And then there are places I ended up in quite by accident. In “awareness of my feelings” I somehow got turned around in Self-Pity. It’s not even a nice place to visit. I couldn’t turn around without someone trying to convince me that my problems were nothing compared to theirs. Depression led me to dwell in Hopelessness, but the deep fog and lack of daylight were more than I could bear. I tried to buy a house in Envy, but somebody else always seemed to own the one I wanted. Guilt was highly populated, but there was no sense of community. Residents have nice houses, but are too ashamed to let anyone in.

Not surprisingly, when I reached the point in my life of my loss, the grief section of my journey, I was tired, discouraged, and carrying more baggage than I could handle. For most of my life I had stuffed my feelings in their respective cases and moved on. When one particular bag became unmanageable, I would unpack it, refold everything, and replace it. I was maxxed out. I had no place to stuff my grief and I knew it. I didn’t have the energy to look for a rest stop. I sat down right where I was. Life had never seemed so unbearably senseless. And I hate to even put this in writing, but God had never seemed so completely unreasonable. Didn’t He see me? Didn’t He understand how much this hurt, or know how much I was already carrying? I was hurt and angry. I threw my suitcases to the ground and kicked them a few times for good measure. When that didn’t help, I decided to unpack and toss out what wasn’t essential, so I could make room for my new baggage and run from this place as fast as I could. I knew I was angry at God, but that was scary for me. Then I thought of Jacob striving with God, and Job questioning God, so I talked to Him while I sorted. I picked each item up and told God what it was, just in case He hadn’t been paying attention. All my reasons to be sad and angry. My anxiety and unfinished work. My list of things I would have pursued if they hadn’t been contrary to His will (I thought He would be really impressed with that). Then I got to my biggest case. The heaviest one. The one I never opened all the way. It was the one I was most afraid of. The zippered pocket on top was threatening to explode with my insecurities. The interior compartment was full of my fears about God. I don’t mean my reverence for God, but my fears resulting from my misconceptions of God.

I believed that God’s love for me was somehow related directly to me. Verses about God’s love and compassion for man in general were never much comfort to me. I wanted love specific to me. I made love about me, instead of about God. The problem with that is that I fail and I’m not always lovable. I made forgiveness about me, and I’m not always forgivable. I made His providence about me, and my needs overwhelm me such that I can’t imagine them being met. The good news is that God’s character is not in any way dependent upon me. God loves me because He is Love. He forgives me because He promises to, and He always keeps His promises. He provides for me because He has a will to provide for those who follow Him. While unfolding my misconceptions before God, I began to see how foolish they were. That’s the problem with hiding fears in the dark. If they aren’t exposed for what they are, they are never dispelled. Once I could let go of my fear, I found that I had no need for the rest of my bags. I had lugged them around, in part, because I thought they could protect me from further heartache. If God promises not to allow me more grief than I can bear, surely the sight of me tripped up by my trappings would convince Him I was overloaded, and spare me further pain. I traded in my meager means of provision for His providence and I left my worn out baggage in the road.

Without the weight of my luggage, traveling through my grief became easier to deal with. I looked to God for comfort and found it. "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:6-7) By peace that passes understanding, I don’t think Paul means that it is incomprehensible, so much as illogical. Think of Paul and Silas singing in prison (Acts 16). Peace when from a human perspective, it makes absolutely no sense to feel it. Certainly, in the beginning of my struggle, I could see no way that I would ever survive the pain, much less be able to enjoy a moment of life again. But as I come to the last stretch of this grieving section of my travel, I can say that with God all things are possible. I am at peace with God, and with my loss. I also have an understanding of faith that I never had before. I used to think that faith was a feeling that made following God easier. Faith is believing in God’s goodwill even when it isn’t evident. Faith is taking the road God chooses even when everything in me says that the other way looks much better to travel. I used to think that God was harsh in His expectations of me. Forgive, be patient, obey, trust. Now I understand that what He requires me to give up are the things that present too great a burden for me to carry. He is concerned less with the ease of my journey and luxury of my accommodations than with my arrival at my destination safe and whole and His. Now I can carry my babies in my heart where they belong, instead of on my back as the weight of unfathomable grief.

I am a “why?” person. I can’t tell you why I have three babies in heaven, instead of here with me. Maybe I’ll never know why. God never told Job why he suffered, even though he repeatedly asked. I have decided to give up that search in pursuit of a different kind of “why?”. In Man's Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl describes his life in the Nazi concentration camps. He survived with his sanity and his faith in God intact. In his book he gives the following quote, “A man who has a why to live for, can survive almost any how.”

As my final thought, I offer my “Why”. From this point on, when staying on the strait and narrow proves difficult, I have this visualization to keep me focused. I see myself on the road, and when I get tired and am distracted by the lure of the towns that offer comforts they cannot give, I remember that I am not walking for the joy of walking, I am walking home. If I fail and find that I come back to the road with souvenirs, I plan to toss them aside and never look back. I need my arms free. Because at the end of the day - which is this life - when the dry, dusty road gives way to golden pavement, I can see that my Father has not just invited me, He has been watching for me. As I approach He runs out to greet me. And once I am home, surrounded by all those I love, who have stayed the course, I finally take my babies in my arms - and none of us will ever be parted again….

There is nothing else I want to hold on to. And there is nothing this life offers me that means more than that.

Amy M. Smith
Georgia