Directing a children’s choir never made my short list. No one was more surprised when after talking to our Minister of Worship and Arts I found myself staring back at 25 pairs of eyes that first Sunday evening.
I struggled the first few weeks. My leadership was not good but the choir responded even when I did a bad job.
I began the year committed to working the children into my schedule. I made sure they had my attention when I was with them. I set goals at the beginning of the year and tried to stay focused on them.
At times I came to choir and didn’t have a clue what to do or where to start. That didn’t seem to bother the children. They just wanted to do something important and this was their opportunity.
I could see the end of the year and it looked like an eternity away. I was not optimistic about my chances to pull off two musicals and a couple of worship service performances. I knew my hope rested in the quality of support I would receive from parents, church staff and my own team. I depended on them. I am sure there were times when they looked at me and wondered why I took the job.
I did, too.
From the beginning I intended to keep the job one year. I was sure someone else would step up the next year. As for my legacy as a director, people might not remember that I was a good leader, but they would remember me as a person ready to cooperate and take on a job even if it wasn’t “a good fit.”
Everything in my life changed during November 2003.
It doesn’t take long to catch on to the seriousness of heart disease. Sober-faced doctors, committed nurses, task-oriented support-staff and clueless but well-meaning residents all build a community focused on the patient. After a while, however, even the most hard-boiled patient starts to realize a lot more is at stake than just whether you can make it past “the knife.”
As I watched the world parade past my bed, I began to see people differently. Maybe I began to see them for the first time. My church family took time out from busy personal schedules to pray with me. When my employer kept paychecks coming even though it was a hardship on the business, it touched me deeper than I was prepared. My beloved family put their lives on hold until they knew everything would be OK.
Nothing, however, reached me like the first Sunday evening after I was released from the hospital. I returned to the children’s choir to thank them for remembering me. Their response, when I walked into the room, overwhelmed me. It wasn’t the height of volume. It was the depth of joy. They knew I would be back and their prayers were a part of what made it happen.
I left the hospital a physically changed man. I left the choir room changed in a whole different way.
When I left the rehearsal room I saw the children and my time with them as precious. I still believed I would be the director but one year. Instead of being an eternity, however, the time was in danger of flying past me. I saw my limited ability in children’s leadership required more than just my previous “work around” mentality.
As I walked from the choir room that night I acquired a sense of urgency. Somehow I started seeing the difference between dreaming and having a vision. Somewhere in time children became the canvas rather than the resource. My leadership purpose changed and the choir became the paint. In the process the leader became the student and the student became the teacher.
When it is healthy, the symbiotic relationship of student and teacher makes for a dynamic that is difficult to measure. It is a relationship that works best when we let it happen naturally as each does their assigned tasks, fulfills their vision and follows their hopes and dreams. In the end we draw lessons from our time together that will weather the storms of life.
The following are some of the lessons I have drawn from my short time of service as the children’s choir director. I restrain from offering the actual stories and shared learning experiences behind these ideas.
Children know how to express joy.
You haven’t seen joy until you see it in the eyes of a child that knows what they are doing is important and they are doing a good job. This is different from having fun. Children teach you the difference between fun and joy. Jesus didn’t say, “I have come that you might have fun and have it more abundantly.” Children get it. Sometimes we don’t.
They know how to express joy with their whole being.
Getting children to do something loud is not hard. They do that so well. They are energy. The challenge is getting them to do it under control and on cue. When they do, you have something very unique. You have a person so focused and vibrant that the world lights up around them.
They know the right way to say, “Thank you.”
Children aren’t into gimmicks or cute things. They are into drawing, coloring, wrapping with uneven corners and poorly placed tape. But most importantly, children are into looking you in the eyes and saying something important to them. They know saying “thank you” is ultimately not about “me.” It is about “you.” They say “thank you” to tell you something about you. It is never about them.
They know the right time to say, “Thank you.”
A child doesn’t wait for that perfect moment. They just say, "Thank you." It is in that moment that everything you are measures up to their expectations. Relish in it because the moment moves on too soon.
They show me how easy it is to inflict pain.
Unfortunately, children are not perfect angels. They also give us a picture of selfishness. Being selfish is the heart of sin. I look back and realize the times I hurt others. A child finds out it is so easy to do. Paul addresses my inner child when he says, “I put away childish things.”
They show me that sometimes l like to hurt people.
The child is not a bad child. The child is simply looking for a way to be seen and acknowledged. There are times the darker side of my humanity leaks. My selfishness runs unabated. The childish things of life rear their head and I stumble. I am reminded there really isn’t that much distance between childhood and adulthood.
They teach me how to ask forgiveness, give forgiveness and go on living.
I watched as a child went to another and said, “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t one of those adult oriented, set-up apologies. The child found out he hurt someone and he apologized. Something wonderful happened. Forgiven, a transgression forgotten, they sat together and shared a piece of music. Forgiveness given and granted filled the whole room with music.
They remind me how good it feels to share a part of my life.
No man is an island, Children help me to open my life to others and ask from them. They help me be a cup to hold the elixir of vitality that only children can squeeze from life. They fill the cup and stand ready to fill it again each time I am empty.
They teach me to remember the purpose as l prepare for performance.
Children aren’t that focused on purpose. They enjoy the moment. They remind me how easy it is to get so lost in the celebration that I forget someone had to bake the cake. Working with children reminds me that someone has to keep “the main thing the main thing.” As long as the leader knows where they are going, the children will follow even onto a stage before 400 people to recite lines that only 24 hours before floated in a foggy mist. They do that because they trust. It is a heavy mantle to wear. Only keeping centered on the purpose will protect the leader.
They teach me that everything l do is a foundation for the next event in my life.
I watched as the first group of children left for youth groups. I had them for a year and the next group I will have but for two. I remember the leadership of my childhood. Mrs. Davidson rehearsed our Books of the Bible until they were a part of my Sunday fabric. Mr. Perry, Wiley Stuart and “Jinks” Middleton sat patiently as we read our Sunday lesson out loud. They did their best to fill our time with wisdom from the Bible. Our children’s choirs sang, our Vacation Bible School marched and our mission groups prayed. All taught me lessons long forgotten. What is not lost is that each set a stone. They squared it with life and prepared me to enter the world ready to bear the weight of adulthood.
There are many in our church more qualified than I to lead this group of musicians. There isn’t a single person I know who appreciates them and looks forward to the next time we meet more than I do.
Chas Schaal, 2005
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
Not All Pickles Are Gherkins
This, the second of my posts, initiates a regular posting schedule. I plan on publishing each Monday. If all goes well I will increase it to twice a week.
Thanks for all of the encouragement I received after my first effort. I hope those to follow will be worth the time it takes to write them.
----------
The humorist Will Rogers said, “I have never met a man I didn’t like.” Well, I’ve never met a pickle I really cared for.
First off, they are green. For most of my childhood if it was on the table and green, I let the serving plate pass. I am not sure I cared too much for green "Jell-O" or green "Kool Aid." If it was green, I said, “No. thanks.” Pickles are green.
Secondly, they are sour. Why do I want to eat something that will warp my face into the visage of a grimacing old man with no teeth? I will look like one of those dried apple heads you see at the Ozark tourist traps hawking products pretending to be home-spun Americana.
I know stores sell pickles they call sweet, but I don’t believe them. If they were really sweet they would put them in a brown wrapper and call them "Snickers." And you can’t honestly tell me your great Aunt Sadie really makes sweet pickles every year.
That is the same woman who knitted your Christmas present when you were eight. You remember that chartreuse, teal and hot pink pull-over sock cap assembled from yarn scraps of the two baby blankets and fifteen potholders she made for the women’s mission society. Do you really think she knows what is sweet? That is how she said you looked just before your mom forced you to go outside and play with your friends.
Thirdly, pickles stink. One Christmas our family journeyed back to Texas. My wife, bless her heart, is a pickle lover. (I have considered taking this to the state to see if I can get one of those special blue parking cards for my car. It has to be a disability of some kind.) Just past Kansas City, a large jar of pickles slipped from her hands, tipped over and baptized our Impala with the pungent fragrance of dill, vinegar and other secret industrial toxic wastes.
Talk about aroma therapy. My nostrils flared, my lips puckered and my eyes watered. It was midnight on a rural Kansas interstate. There wasn’t anywhere to go to get relief. I just smiled, said I loved her and never uttered a complaining word the rest of the trip. After all, I am not a person to point out the misadventures of others, even when it causes me great discomfort. So, you see, I know pickles. They stink.
Now I find myself in a “pickle-ish” situation.
When I began my blog, my list of potential submissions numbered four. I was smug enough to think I was set for several weeks. Now as I review the available material, I am a bit uneasy.
A friend of mine recently encouraged me. She said I am transparent, alluding to my ability or my weakness if you happen to be my spouse or offspring, to recognize, dissect and over-analyze every little wrinkle in my psyche.
I suppose being transparent is not a bad thing. The problem in me over-analyzing every little bump and bruise in my make-up is I reveal my thoughts and feelings about what others do that I wouldn’t do if I were doing what they were doing. (Are you following me?)
So here I am, with this great article and I realize someone is going to miss my creative brilliance all because of a little off-handed comment that could be construed as saying they are clods, morons or Democrats. Their nostrils will flair, their lips will pucker and unfortunately they may not be as charitable or as disciplined as I am. We may find ourselves involved in a lively exchange of ideas and concepts.
So how am I to handle this pickle jar?
First off, I am going to make sure the lid of my jar is on tight. I mean, does this jar even need to be opened. After all, hamburgers are good without pickles and you don’t need pickles in your potato salad. I can just leave the article on my computer and chalk it up to a private venting that the world is just not ready for.
However, if I open that jar, I need to be careful. I don’t want to dump a mess in my lap. I may find I need to do some judicious rewriting. Maybe an illustration or two needs to be exorcised.
When I serve a pickle I need to do it as delicately as possible. You know, make wavy slices and try to pass off something that is sour as an item of delicate taste for the discriminating palate.
If that fails, maybe I can just say I was only joking, having a little fun and meant no harm. After all, no one wants to be known as a bad sport. People want to be known as good natured and understanding, don’t they?
How do I look in my new sock cap?
Thanks for all of the encouragement I received after my first effort. I hope those to follow will be worth the time it takes to write them.
----------
The humorist Will Rogers said, “I have never met a man I didn’t like.” Well, I’ve never met a pickle I really cared for.
First off, they are green. For most of my childhood if it was on the table and green, I let the serving plate pass. I am not sure I cared too much for green "Jell-O" or green "Kool Aid." If it was green, I said, “No. thanks.” Pickles are green.
Secondly, they are sour. Why do I want to eat something that will warp my face into the visage of a grimacing old man with no teeth? I will look like one of those dried apple heads you see at the Ozark tourist traps hawking products pretending to be home-spun Americana.
I know stores sell pickles they call sweet, but I don’t believe them. If they were really sweet they would put them in a brown wrapper and call them "Snickers." And you can’t honestly tell me your great Aunt Sadie really makes sweet pickles every year.
That is the same woman who knitted your Christmas present when you were eight. You remember that chartreuse, teal and hot pink pull-over sock cap assembled from yarn scraps of the two baby blankets and fifteen potholders she made for the women’s mission society. Do you really think she knows what is sweet? That is how she said you looked just before your mom forced you to go outside and play with your friends.
Thirdly, pickles stink. One Christmas our family journeyed back to Texas. My wife, bless her heart, is a pickle lover. (I have considered taking this to the state to see if I can get one of those special blue parking cards for my car. It has to be a disability of some kind.) Just past Kansas City, a large jar of pickles slipped from her hands, tipped over and baptized our Impala with the pungent fragrance of dill, vinegar and other secret industrial toxic wastes.
Talk about aroma therapy. My nostrils flared, my lips puckered and my eyes watered. It was midnight on a rural Kansas interstate. There wasn’t anywhere to go to get relief. I just smiled, said I loved her and never uttered a complaining word the rest of the trip. After all, I am not a person to point out the misadventures of others, even when it causes me great discomfort. So, you see, I know pickles. They stink.
Now I find myself in a “pickle-ish” situation.
When I began my blog, my list of potential submissions numbered four. I was smug enough to think I was set for several weeks. Now as I review the available material, I am a bit uneasy.
A friend of mine recently encouraged me. She said I am transparent, alluding to my ability or my weakness if you happen to be my spouse or offspring, to recognize, dissect and over-analyze every little wrinkle in my psyche.
I suppose being transparent is not a bad thing. The problem in me over-analyzing every little bump and bruise in my make-up is I reveal my thoughts and feelings about what others do that I wouldn’t do if I were doing what they were doing. (Are you following me?)
So here I am, with this great article and I realize someone is going to miss my creative brilliance all because of a little off-handed comment that could be construed as saying they are clods, morons or Democrats. Their nostrils will flair, their lips will pucker and unfortunately they may not be as charitable or as disciplined as I am. We may find ourselves involved in a lively exchange of ideas and concepts.
So how am I to handle this pickle jar?
First off, I am going to make sure the lid of my jar is on tight. I mean, does this jar even need to be opened. After all, hamburgers are good without pickles and you don’t need pickles in your potato salad. I can just leave the article on my computer and chalk it up to a private venting that the world is just not ready for.
However, if I open that jar, I need to be careful. I don’t want to dump a mess in my lap. I may find I need to do some judicious rewriting. Maybe an illustration or two needs to be exorcised.
When I serve a pickle I need to do it as delicately as possible. You know, make wavy slices and try to pass off something that is sour as an item of delicate taste for the discriminating palate.
If that fails, maybe I can just say I was only joking, having a little fun and meant no harm. After all, no one wants to be known as a bad sport. People want to be known as good natured and understanding, don’t they?
How do I look in my new sock cap?
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Unfinished Business
My father’s workshop was never a neat and tidy place. It was not because he was untidy. He simply had more tools, supplies and resources than room to store them.
While it wasn’t a tidy place, it also wasn’t a graveyard of half-baked ideas, DIY kit-bash projects or one-off inventions. When my father began a repair job or started a task, he finished it. It also worked. Well.
He was great at creating what he needed. He designed and built a garden tiller for pennies on the dollar in the late 50s. In the 60’s he attached a vacuum cleaner to his radial arm saw and built a box in the saw’s table. It vacuumed the saw dust as he ran the machine so there never was a mess. He built a set of adjustable baby cribs in the 1970s, the like of which were not marketed until the early 90s. They were only just replaced at our home church.
If dad had a hand in it, it worked. If it was broken, he fixed it. If it was ill-suited, he morphed it.
After Viki and I married, our old black and white TV went on the fritz. In the early 70s you could still go to a convenience store and use their tube tester. When you found the offending tube, they had one to sell you. I earned my stripes as a providing husband when I fixed our TV.
I knew I couldn’t match my dad on many things but I had watched him do this job before. I did get the TV back on and my wife was proud. There is nothing like setting back and taking in the ambiance of a job well done.
I used to think the feeling of a job well-done is just in doing the job well. After a few opportunities to take in the ambiance, I think the sense of accomplishment comes not from doing the job well as much as it comes from doing it until it’s done. The difference may be lost on you. It isn’t on me. There is a special glory in persevering until the end is not just in sight but is behind you.
A wag once said, “When all is said and done, more is usually said than done.” Another childhood proverb says, “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” Of all the contests in the summer Olympics, the most cheered loser is the person who comes in last place in the marathon. A gut wrenching experience and a character builder if ever there is, the marathon runner is a person celebrated not because of winning but because of completion.
On the other hand, the landscape of a fruitless and discouraged life is one littered with unfinished projects, half-baked dreams and meaningless promises of future glory and achievements.
Unfinished business is life clutter. The scourge of clutter has become a hit TV show. The TV hosts come into a home, help that week’s dubious stars to trash, barter or justify every item that takes up space in their home. It is often a cathartic experience.
But life clutter is more insidious than half-finished scrapbooks and piles of unfolded clothes. It is a life that lacks direction and priority. The unfinished projects are but “Burma Shave” signs on a highway going nowhere. They are pieces of humor and cute proverbs that eventually serve only as a shill to sell one more excuse to procrastinate.
It is a source of life pollution. The acrid smell of rotten eggs, the wrenching creep of rotting flesh or the repulsive power of a skunk’s unwelcome greeting have no equal to a life polluted with unfinished business. Life pollution penalizes the vista of hope for years to come just for being an unwitting partner.
It hinders new projects by promoting creative inertia. Nothing succeeds like success. Nothing hinders progress like a life focused on the minutia of details put off to another more convenient time.
It conditions the acceptance of mediocrity. Instead of reaching for the last detail and painting the places no one will see, the cluttered, inert and moribund life learns to accept placebos of completion. “It’s good enough for government work.” This and others may be sincere expressions and at times worthy to be used. But they prepare the fruitless for a lifetime of “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.”
It camouflages lessons that are best learned rather than repeated. This is not the life of an “also ran.” This is the life of a “never finished.” It is the life of lost opportunities. It is a life of lessons postponed, not learned. The lessons are learned by looking back after finishing, not from the sidelines as others crossed the checkered line.
Is it time to sweep the table clean? Is it time to clear the shelves of trophies others earned? Is it time to unclutter a life, clean up an agenda, place excellence above acceptance, and resurrect opportunities? Is it time to deal with unfinished business?
What was that burning desire when you purchased the sewing machine you couldn’t afford? What caught your attention in the DIY magazine that convinced you the goal was not only attainable, it was absolutely necessary? What was said in a corporate meeting that drove you to enroll in the education program intended to make a difference in your life and your family? What woke you in the middle of the night and filled your commute with dreams?
Reclaim your passion. Reclaim your vision. Reclaim your life. Finish your business. Set one priority. Decide to clear the workbench of life. You are going to focus on cleaning this mess of a life up.
Identify that one project, that one vision, that one event that will make a difference right now because you tackled it and got it done. Find the one you are closest to completing and knock it out. If it can’t be knocked out in a day or a week, cut it up and knock out one piece.
Whatever you do, get that one doable project moved off the “Things I’m going to do when I get time” agenda. Don’t let any other project get in its way.
Start measuring your activity and not your progress. The marathon runner doesn’t worry where he is on the course. He pays attention to his pace, his tempo and his stride. He knows if he pays attention to these details, the end will come soon enough.
When that project is complete, don’t start another one. Don’t pick up another pattern, another magazine or another brochure. Sit back and enjoy the view. Accept the murmurs of accomplishment your heart beats out as cool breezes blow through the newly planted flower garden. It not only feels good to finish. The view is pretty good from up there, too.
While it wasn’t a tidy place, it also wasn’t a graveyard of half-baked ideas, DIY kit-bash projects or one-off inventions. When my father began a repair job or started a task, he finished it. It also worked. Well.
He was great at creating what he needed. He designed and built a garden tiller for pennies on the dollar in the late 50s. In the 60’s he attached a vacuum cleaner to his radial arm saw and built a box in the saw’s table. It vacuumed the saw dust as he ran the machine so there never was a mess. He built a set of adjustable baby cribs in the 1970s, the like of which were not marketed until the early 90s. They were only just replaced at our home church.
If dad had a hand in it, it worked. If it was broken, he fixed it. If it was ill-suited, he morphed it.
After Viki and I married, our old black and white TV went on the fritz. In the early 70s you could still go to a convenience store and use their tube tester. When you found the offending tube, they had one to sell you. I earned my stripes as a providing husband when I fixed our TV.
I knew I couldn’t match my dad on many things but I had watched him do this job before. I did get the TV back on and my wife was proud. There is nothing like setting back and taking in the ambiance of a job well done.
I used to think the feeling of a job well-done is just in doing the job well. After a few opportunities to take in the ambiance, I think the sense of accomplishment comes not from doing the job well as much as it comes from doing it until it’s done. The difference may be lost on you. It isn’t on me. There is a special glory in persevering until the end is not just in sight but is behind you.
A wag once said, “When all is said and done, more is usually said than done.” Another childhood proverb says, “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” Of all the contests in the summer Olympics, the most cheered loser is the person who comes in last place in the marathon. A gut wrenching experience and a character builder if ever there is, the marathon runner is a person celebrated not because of winning but because of completion.
On the other hand, the landscape of a fruitless and discouraged life is one littered with unfinished projects, half-baked dreams and meaningless promises of future glory and achievements.
Unfinished business is life clutter. The scourge of clutter has become a hit TV show. The TV hosts come into a home, help that week’s dubious stars to trash, barter or justify every item that takes up space in their home. It is often a cathartic experience.
But life clutter is more insidious than half-finished scrapbooks and piles of unfolded clothes. It is a life that lacks direction and priority. The unfinished projects are but “Burma Shave” signs on a highway going nowhere. They are pieces of humor and cute proverbs that eventually serve only as a shill to sell one more excuse to procrastinate.
It is a source of life pollution. The acrid smell of rotten eggs, the wrenching creep of rotting flesh or the repulsive power of a skunk’s unwelcome greeting have no equal to a life polluted with unfinished business. Life pollution penalizes the vista of hope for years to come just for being an unwitting partner.
It hinders new projects by promoting creative inertia. Nothing succeeds like success. Nothing hinders progress like a life focused on the minutia of details put off to another more convenient time.
It conditions the acceptance of mediocrity. Instead of reaching for the last detail and painting the places no one will see, the cluttered, inert and moribund life learns to accept placebos of completion. “It’s good enough for government work.” This and others may be sincere expressions and at times worthy to be used. But they prepare the fruitless for a lifetime of “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.”
It camouflages lessons that are best learned rather than repeated. This is not the life of an “also ran.” This is the life of a “never finished.” It is the life of lost opportunities. It is a life of lessons postponed, not learned. The lessons are learned by looking back after finishing, not from the sidelines as others crossed the checkered line.
Is it time to sweep the table clean? Is it time to clear the shelves of trophies others earned? Is it time to unclutter a life, clean up an agenda, place excellence above acceptance, and resurrect opportunities? Is it time to deal with unfinished business?
What was that burning desire when you purchased the sewing machine you couldn’t afford? What caught your attention in the DIY magazine that convinced you the goal was not only attainable, it was absolutely necessary? What was said in a corporate meeting that drove you to enroll in the education program intended to make a difference in your life and your family? What woke you in the middle of the night and filled your commute with dreams?
Reclaim your passion. Reclaim your vision. Reclaim your life. Finish your business. Set one priority. Decide to clear the workbench of life. You are going to focus on cleaning this mess of a life up.
Identify that one project, that one vision, that one event that will make a difference right now because you tackled it and got it done. Find the one you are closest to completing and knock it out. If it can’t be knocked out in a day or a week, cut it up and knock out one piece.
Whatever you do, get that one doable project moved off the “Things I’m going to do when I get time” agenda. Don’t let any other project get in its way.
Start measuring your activity and not your progress. The marathon runner doesn’t worry where he is on the course. He pays attention to his pace, his tempo and his stride. He knows if he pays attention to these details, the end will come soon enough.
When that project is complete, don’t start another one. Don’t pick up another pattern, another magazine or another brochure. Sit back and enjoy the view. Accept the murmurs of accomplishment your heart beats out as cool breezes blow through the newly planted flower garden. It not only feels good to finish. The view is pretty good from up there, too.
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