It’s Wednesday.  I am still exhausted from last Thursday, the day of the “International Festival” at Dante and Evan’s School.  It was a big success. It looked like we were a school for performing and visual arts (with all the cool sets and artsy masks, a drum circle and all the different authentic folk dances, with lights and actors and set changes, and the big finale, of course) instead of a tiny little parochial school that was going to close less than a year ago.

I volunteered to produce (write, direct and rehearse) the International Festival Show at my kids’ school because… because… because…

Because when I involve myself in any work with kids (other people’s kids) I know I will come out different.

Not only do I get a chance to offer them a piece of my musical knowledge and skill but I also get to share in little pieces of their worlds.  And receive insight into their innocent (and not-so-innocent) existences. 

There are eight grade boys who are way too cool to sing or to approve of any music, except what’s on their iPods.  They shared the list with me.  I spent hours trying to find “clean” versions on iTunes, and even then, it wasn’t the words that were offensive, but what they talked about.  Granted, I don’t completely understand the many different styles of Rap and Hip Hop and the backgrounds – a part of me wants to believe that there must be more to it somewhere underneath all the filth… I wanted them to participate – some of them are amazingly talented kids.  I let them write their own rap song and I watched them as they performed it – with pride and self-respect.  I tried to help them to understand that they don’t have to accept everything that’s being sold to them, but need to use good judgment and pick out music that doesn’t degrade them, but empowers them with positive values. 

There is a sixth grade student who had never seen an accordion before.  I let her walk around with it, playing the “buttons” until her back started to hurt.

There were fourth grades who didn’t know who Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was – ok, parents… maybe a trip to the symphony now and then wouldn’t be a bad idea, even if you have to use the “bribe method” and promise ice-cream after the show.

A fourth grade boy wanted to be involved in some way.  I assigned him to learn to play the handbells with a few fifth grade boys.  He had become very, very good at it and enjoyed his newfound talent. But in the past his parents had never been able to bring him to any of the evening school activities.  He was so worried he would miss it again that he went home sick from school that day.  Just before show time, he came to me with the biggest smile to say “I made it!” I said I was so happy he was there and how very proud I was of him.  I smiled, but I wanted to cry with the excitement and joy I felt coming from his heart.

These stories are tiny little sparkles in the life of a child and those around them.  But we can never know how big of a “ripple effect” they might have… 

I was in 7th grade when a literature teacher said to me (after I had read my book report, got emotional and had the entire class burst out laughing at me): “you are different and it’s that quality that will set you apart from others.  You will be misunderstood, and lonely because of that, but it will give you a life most extraordinary”.  Her words empowered me and I remembered them many times in my life.  

Yesterday I spent some time with a musician who had lived in London and Los Angeles and now is happily enjoying his perfect life with his wife and children in the quiet and stress-free city of Cincinnati (Matthew said he is going to start a blog “Why we live in Cincinnati”).  Sometimes though, he says, he misses the “highlights”.

In my late twenties, I started to crave the stability of, what I call  “perfect life”, with a husband, children and a house warm and cozy where there would always be fresh flowers in a vase and a pot of delicious soup on the stove (the soup is a sure sign of a “perfect life” in Croatia – even in the scorching heat of summer) This “perfect life” would have a certain routine which, my magazines promised, would then create order and stress-free enviroment.  A well-lived routine would enable me to have plenty of free time; to play with children and enjoy bike rides, soccer games and delicious home-made dinners, hang out with friends, and plan vacations.  I was looking forward to it.  Hmmm.

It worked for me for about six months when Dante was born.  Life with a husband and a baby was so different from anything I had ever known,  I was madly in love with both and the tiniest little noise from the baby, or a fresh squeezed glass of orange juice from my husband provided plenty of emotional “highlights”.  But as our “routine” was establishing, I  panicked and got restless.  Really restless.  

I am a fervent advocate for being honest with who we are.  So, Matthew, Dante and I did what when we had been doing before and what we would be doing only God knows for how long – we packed up and went on the road, seeking a different kind of “perfect life”. One that doesn’t involve flowers freshly cut from my own garden, but instead those given to me with much pride at the end of a concert by a girl who had cut them from her mother’s garden.  We have created our own routines (because every life style needs order and some traces of predictability) and our “perfect life” though it might seem chaotic for most of the people out there, has a certain flow that I still get restless from…

So I look for more “highlights” – and last Thursday was a very emotional one for me.  It’s one thing to get up on stage and perform… I am used to it.  I love it.  I feel more comfortable than in my own living room.  It’s my version of “perfect and calm life of routine and order”.  But to watch students take a chance and conquer their fears and then to see the pride on their faces as they bow for their parents and relatives tears me up inside and leaves me with an amazing sense of accomplishment (even though I had blown off my own work, pushed back a few deadlines, and now will have to get a second job to pay my bills

Every Wednesday evening, I get into my car and drive south on I75.  I don’t go far.  Two exits.  My destination: St. Joseph’s Church close to downtown Cincinnati.

I first came to St. Joseph’s Church one Sunday morning,  I was feeling really sad and depressed.  I had just returned from a Lenten Tour, my first since my father’s passing.  I had had a hard time moving away from the Cross.  I had lingered there at the place of sadness, not willing to let go, afraid of accepting my loss and moving on.

I came to St. Joseph’s that Sunday because someone had told me about their amazing African American choir.  I needed music, deeply spiritual music to heal my heart.  I wore my best day-dress, Matthew had on a tie and our boys were in nice button down shirts and khaki pants.  I was pretty sure that everyone there would be all dressed up.  We sat near the choir.  I wanted to hear them and be close enough to feel their energy.  I was ready to clap my hands and sing without any inhibition.

The music started and a beautiful woman came up to the altar, greeted everyone and said a prayer.  ”I don’t want to wait till a better day comes, to thank you, Lord.  I want to thank you right now.  I don’t want to wait till I am healed to thank you. I want to thank you right now.  I don’t want to wait till I get that job that will help feed my family to thank you, Lord. I want to thank you right now…”

The choir sang, the priest (an older priest who could clap pretty well for a white guy) seemed to enjoy the mass as much as they did – talking his time, letting them take their time and sing many verses as he sang with them.  I could not hold back the tears.  I was sobbing most of the mass.  I tried to hide my sobs from my boys.  I felt like my father was right there sitting on that pew with me, holding me close and whispering into my heart: “It’s all going to be just fine.  I am here.  I will always be here.  Even when you can’t see me I am right here.”   That Sunday, I did not sing.  Not a single note.

That day was one I will never forget.  I felt as if I was lifted up from the place where I stood in tears and carried over to a place where there was a perpetual party going on.  A place wherre life was good in spite of all of life’s hardships and losses.

I also think that the choir and the whole community reminded me of the Croatia where I grew up and the way we used to get together and sing.  My Dad would always take his guitar every time we went to visit someone or have a party and we would all sing in the same uninhibited way, enjoying the simple pleasure of being together and making magical memories out of nothing but a few voices and an old guitar.

It’s been a little over a year now since my first visit to St. Joe’s.  I had asked a friend of mine, another wonderful music minister Jim McCormick, to connect me with their leader Maestro Wylie Howell.

Wednesday rehearsals have become my prayer evenings.

Last week as I sang, Wylie said to me: “Let His Light fill you up. Let HIs Light be the one thing you will share with others. Because He is not on the cross any more, He is in Heaven, He is with you and me right now, right here.” He coached me until something inside of me changed – I felt as if until now I had only walked beside my Lord, or watched Him suffer and felt His pain. Until now, I had looked at Him from down below, on my knees, broken by my struggling soul.  But now, as I sang at St. Joe’s I felt God within me – shining like a blazing light through me.  

I can not wait for this Concert.

The alarm sounded off perfectly synched with the sunrise. I reached over and with a smile on my face, without once hitting the snooze button, turned it off. I sprung on my feet, stretched out my arms, breathed deeply and within minutes I was showered, my subtle but flawless make up was applied and I was wearing a bright yellow tailored dress and some cool “putting-around-the-house” heels. I arranged the fresh tulips and lilacs that were delivered at my door that morning, turned the music on and started working on the Easter breakfast – fresh squeezed orange juice, freshly baked bread, croissants, ham and hard boiled eggs (which my boys and I had painted and decorated so artfully you’d think they were not to be eaten… ever) with tea served in my best teapot. I poured myself a nice cup of tea and sat down in my sun-flooded kitchen, waiting for my boys to wake up.

“Mama, mama, wake up” I heard Dante saying.

“What’s up, ljubavi?”, I always try to address my boys with the Croatian word for ‘love’

“Happy Easter”

“Happy Easter

to you, too Dante”, I glanced at my clock. 7:13. “Do you mind if I sleep for a bit longer?”

“No, but Blais and I are hungry.” Dante said quitely and gently.

I looked at him standing big and tall next to his two and a half year old brother, both in their red p.j.’s. Instinctively I looked for Evan and right away I located him snuggled on the other side of me sound asleep.

“There are doughnuts on the counter in the kitchenette, would you serve some?” I mumbled, immediately feeling a pang of guilt. Was it a dream? I thought I got up and made this nice breakfast for my family. It’s Easter Sunday…

“Sure, mama” Dante said and ran to the kitchen “Come on, Blais, I’ll give you umm-umm (Croatian baby speak for eating)” I smiled at Dante’s use of Croatian language. I felt a bit proud – sure they don’t speak Croatian in full sentences, but a word here-and-there is a good beginning. “Oh, whatever… I am not allowing any kind of guilt into my conscience. Not today”, I thought.

I made a move, or at least I remember willing myself into making a move, to get up and help him “He is still so little, he shouldn’t have to…” But I stayed laying still. A smile came to my face as I looked out the window at the ocean. “Thank you, God. For this morning. For my sons. For Easter. For this comfortable bed. For the soft sheets and the perfect pillow, and the warmth of my husband’s closeness. For liking the way I am – without guilt.”

We took a few days after the tour on South Carolinas shores, to wind down before getting back home where plenty more work awaited us. Matthew loves the ocean, the boys love building sand castles, and I love to sit on a nice chair, look out into the vastness of the Atlantic and ponder: I look East at a new beginning of each sunrise, that brings new possibilities and fills me with refreshed hopes and dreams. At the same time I look East where my past, my roots, my memories are. From the same direction come the new and the old, the lightness of being and the heaviness of the past. Such confusion…

Perhaps that’s why I also enjoy just sitting on a nice chair and reading fiction – especially fiction that involves shoes, lunches and big cities – without feeling any guilt. It’s like counting pennies for me: just letting my brain rest by giving it thoughts or actions that employs it enough so that it won’t take me into any serious pondering.

Not too long ago, I would not admit to this not even to my close friends, let alone make it public in a “blog”, oops, a “diary”. But I am really comfortable with me these days. I am who I am.

Happy Easter (have you downloaded Alleluia yet?)