I GREW UP IN THE MOUNTAINS

No, I didn’t grow up in the mountains.  But I know some people who grew up in the hills of Pennsylvania--and that's close enough!   They're not real hillbillies, inspite of the stories about the family's 150-year-old slave cabin, the dead-possum-flavored spring water, spotlighting deer on Saturday nights and skinny dipping.    But they can sure sound the part when they get together for a Lichtenwalter reunion. 

Now, I haven’t been to many family reunions.  Growing up a Baasch, we never thought of such a thing.   Daddy was an only child, a missionary kid, and one of only two cousins to settle in America.  We were short on extended family.  Grandma Baasch died when I was five.   My picture of a family reunion was when Grandpa Baasch came up from his basement apartment and sang the bass part of all five verses of "Abide With Me" with us for family worship.  The security of that song has never left me.

My mom’s Munson family made a larger circle and gathered when they could, though  usually without us.  (After four generations of missionaries, I suspect someone realized that if they didn’t connect, they wouldn’t even know each other’s names.)  I remember my mom helping to plan the one Munson family reunion we attended in California's redwood forest some time in the '60s.  The reunion song they chose was George Beverly Shea's, "He can turn the tide and calm the angry sea....He's always ready...to forgive."  The melody has never left me; neither has the smell of the redwood forest every time I hum it.

But if you’re a Lichtenwalter and you grew up in the mountains "where snakes have four legs, where hoot owls speak English and roosters lay square eggs," a family reunion is a common event.  All five generations are coaxed to the same corner of Pennsylvania on a sticky August day.  Or a crisp fall Sunday.  Or an icy March evening.   Of course, like this year, the hardest part is finding the best time for Larry and his disconnected family to show up!  It's gotta happen this time; we're headed on a long journey to a faraway place.  A family reunion is what makes memories...that won't leave us.

After a few dozen phone calls and several different plans, we finally met at Lisa’s one Saturday night in March.  Every square of table space was covered with Nana’s famous  pecan meatballs, oatmeal patties, and apple pies--along with an amazing spread of traditional family dishes and a fridge full of drinks!  Over a long evening, the Lichtenwalter clan sauntered in, hugged each other, poked fun, poked back, and caught up on the last few months.  I didn't get everyone's names, but that's always been hard for me.  The new generations expand the clan quickly; Nana is a great-great-grandmother several times over already.  

Towards the end of the evening, someone suggested a family picture.  Everyone’s iPods and cellphones came out.  And while Nana sat gloriously in the midst of her tribe, someone broke out singing the first line of the most famous of her repertoire.  

Most of the family is gathered here just seconds before someone in the crowd
began singing that familiar drone-like beginning, "I grew up in the mountains...."    

“I grew up in the mountains where snakes have four legs,

Where hoot owls speak English and roosters lay square eggs. 

Oh, I’m a truthful fellow, they call me truthful Bill. 

I never told a falsehood and I bet I never will."

“I shaved my beard and mustache the morning I was born.

That night I beat my old man and drank his rye and corn.

Oh, I’m a truthful fellow, they call me truthful Bill.

I never told a falsehood and I bet I never will."

“I flew my way to Paris and in my aero plane,
Dah-dahee dah dee dah dah, and started back again.

When I got halfway over the darn old engine stopped.
I left the thing set up there and I got out to walk.

Oh, I’m a truthful fellow, they call me truthful Bill.

I never told a falsehood and I bet I never will.”

"The father of our country, he never told a lie.

He was my great, great uncle, I ask you why should I?"

And that was only the first song that rolled off their tongues like fast, loud recordings.   You should hear "I'm My Own Grandpa" and "In the Crust of the Old Apple Pie" and "Mrs. Murphy's Chowder."  They can rattle them off so easily, you know everyone's  heard 'em a thousand times:   From Grandma Campbell as she flipped her plate-sized pancakes.  From Nana as she rolled out noodles for chicken pot pie.  From children to grandchildren.  From grandchildren to great-grandchildren.  

The music of each family I belong to carries a thousand memories, generations of experience, a bond that can't be explained.   The reunion with the past is in the music we've shared.  Sometimes even the melody has gotten lost to my ear, but the memories and meaning never, never leaves me. 

Why else can I still smell baking pies, see the shell collection in the corner cabinet, feel the breeze of a cool California evening, and hear the grin in Grandpa Munson's high tenor voice as he slaps his knee and belts out...  Well, it was a silly, nonsensical melody he liked to sing to us in Malay at tongue-twisting speed.  The song itself is lost to my ear, but the memories that accompany it have never left me.

I've never mastered the doggerel that comes with growing up in the mountains where snakes have four legs, but the purpose is served anyway:   Even I--sitting on the couch where I've just pulled Nana down to join me in order to make her get into the picture--even I have a rich treasure of memories connected to the family who knows their songs so well.

* * * 

By the way, any Lichtenwalter historian reading this is welcome to supply the "Dah-dahee...dah dee" line for me!  Either the song never sunk in or it's already sinking out of my memory and all I'll be able to recall is the feeling of Nana falling on me... Who needs all the words to keep the memory?!

THE WAY IT HAPPENS

Yesterday I folded up my music stand—yes, I kept one for myself—loosened my bow, stuck a damp humidifier into my violin and closed the case.  It wasn’t exactly a ceremony, but it was memorable.  The simple routine marked the end of 30 years that I had shared as “Teacher Kathie” with nearly 700 mischievous, endearing, maddeningly gifted young people.

Beautiful music is nice.  Teaching is fun.  But I love those kids.   To even the most casual observor, though, love may seem an unlikely result of the whole violin process.  I know the feeling of being associated with the enemy.  ("I hate violin, Mommmmmy.   I hate music.  I hate practicing.  I hate lessons!” does not hold great prospects for the teacher.)  But through it all I've had the wonderful opportunity of becoming a permanent fixture to a whole crowd of kids and their families, inspite of it all. I am sure one of the reasons I love teaching violin is the challenge of using such an irrational, frustrating project to forge the best of friendships.  Every time I’ve helped an uncooperative instrument and an eager, awkward kid accomplish something good together, I have made a special, young friend and a precious memory...

I remember the Sunday morning Lauren came kicking and screaming to my studio door—in her mother’s locked arms—still in her pink nightgown, absolutely adamant she would not attend her lesson, do violin, practice ever again.  So much for stubbornness.  If “Face to Face” is the theme hymn for all those you love, Lauren, and the melody for all our performances together over the last 15 years, it’s also the story of the deepest kind of heart music I ever wished for you. God will make that song real for you some day…and you will see Grandpa Owen again.

I remember the third lesson in a row that little Dominique curled up in the corner of my studio behind the parents’ chair, screaming hysterically while I took her dad out to the entryway and explained how to teach her violin for another week.  So much for overwhelm.  Your solo concerto with your school  orchestra was superb, Dominique.

I remember a blur of lessons with you, Tommy, that stretched into our family supper time as I bent down from my teacher’s stool to eyeball you, because you did not agree with how a bow should be held.  So much for stubbornness.  We have the evidence.  Your mother has a photo of your bow hold somewhere deep in her files that you need to show Itzhak and see what side of the argument he comes down.   You’ve achieved unbelievable successes in music.  Your greatest success, though, will always be in how your life honors God and blesses others.

I remember the utter relief we felt not long ago, Ivanna, when we all finally understood.  I remember the years of wiggly feet that could curiously wrap around each other.  And the eyes that wandered to the trees outside  my window, looking for the bird you could hear singing.  I remember the puzzled look on your face when I “caught you” with a question you hadn’t even heard. So much for years of slow progress.  It was OK, though, because we were hanging in there until you could get the help you needed to focus.  All the music in you suddenly came together and came out, like the birdsongs that distracted you.  God has known all along how much music has been waiting inside you...and how well He can use the extraordinary music in your heart.

I remember Skype lessons from Montana, Kaitlyn.  Watching the bow jerk across the computer screen and hearing the broken scrape of the bow through satellite signals is not a violin teacher's dream.  But it was precious, endearing time with you to walk through numbered measures or fingering or note names to unearth what made the song hard--and what would help you enjoy a new melody.  So much for distance.  It kept our hearts together.  Over our three years on Skype, I could end every lesson so naturally with, “I love you, Kaitlyn.”

I remember the contract I wrote for you to sign, Lauren.  It seemed the only reasonable way to continue violin in the face of petrifying recitals, friends who seemed to play so easily and songs that just didn’t sound right to you.  So much for results.  I may have been out of the country when you married the guy next to you in orchestra who had a better violin than you did, but I shared in the joy.  Shar’s Fine Instrument department did their best to match the tone of your violin to his, didn’t they?  If you ever forget what brought you together, get out your instruments...and practice!

Speaking of weddings, Paul.  I remember leaving my church a little early one Sabbath so I could be at your wedding ceremony across town and play Lover’s Waltz at the end of a deeply spiritual, moving service.  If anyone questions a fiddling number in church, how else does a guy celebrate God’s leading in his heart that prompts him to propose to his stand partner with a solitary rendition of “Lover’s Waltz?"   How creative of you, then, to plead with her to play the duet with you for the rest of her life!  I hope it's gentle harmony reminds you both how much you need Him to help you play in beautiful, lifelong ensemble.

I could go on and on...with memories for each one of "my kids."   Of tear streaks on violin varnish.  Of “broken” strings and scissors.  Of Suzuki books criss-crossed with tire tracks and practice guides overwritten with scathing declarations.  Of scale books that lost their covers--and the bad words that were written on them.  Learning violin can be hard.
But it can also be discovery.  Accomplishment.  Success.  Getting through “Mary Had  A Little Lamb” or Monti’s “Czardas.”  Holding a solid chin grip or hearing the wobble of a beginning vibrato.  Deciphering those mysterious notes or creating a song.  Playing your first gig and collecting that first check.  The memories are not just mine, I know.  Don't forget how great it was to have your name drawn for a Stringshop door prize.  Or to twirl those slippery gypsy scarves.   To perform barefoot on the stage of the Howard Center.  To survive playing a beach wedding in sand-biting wind.  Or to collapse in air conditioning after fiddling at the St. Joseph art show.  

Violin is about high hurdles and sweet satisfaction, about hard things becoming easier.  I'm amazed at what can take place in the little bit of time we shared together each week and what gets accomplished after a year, or two, or ten.  Look, Michael, at what you've done in the past sixteen years! But maybe it's not that amazing after all...

Julia not only knows what it takes to design and make a 
totally edible violin cake for the final recital, 
but she knows what it takes to make four totally talented, 
semi-eager young men into developing musicians.

Because in the shadows behind all those lessons and group rehearsals, recitals and StringShop concerts--along every step of the way--is always a tenacious mom, a supportive dad, a highly interested grandma or grandpa who has made the real investment and helped it all happen:  The one who should stand and bow at the end of the performance.

I have learned, no matter how thorough my teaching or how motivating I am, success is in the hands of  a strong parent like Julia who says to a discouraged teen,  “Look, Mutungi, you will not skip out of Teacher Kathie's last recital.  You will play 'La Folia' too.  And.  I will let you drive my car.” 

Sometimes that’s how it happens.

YOU KNOW LIFE HAS CHANGED...WHEN

At the end of three weeks of Brazil and warm breezes, unending fruit  and new friends, I'm sitting here at my kitchen table in Berrien Springs, Michigan, surrounded by mounds of mail with more things to add to my list of things to do.  I cringe at the thought of 30 phone messages that I need to hear...and return.


Ordinarily--well, what has been ordinarily extraordinary for 27 years--this would be a quiet Sunday evening, the beginning of a predictably hectic week, but not too much that a little bit of planning and pacing and prayer can't handle.


Instead, it's a quiet Sunday evening, the beginning of an unpredictably chaotic week--a  downhill slide into sorting, packing, selling, throwing and more clutter than my house as ever seen in all its life.  Even my praying places are taken.  Is this the undoing of my world?


Even though I've always considered myself an intentional non-hoarder, this week my whole life is crawling out from under beds, down off shelves, out of drawers.  Stirring memories and dust.  Emptying corners.  

The blanket on top of the entertainment center 
went for $3...until my honest friend went home, 
checked online, & returned with $15 more.

I'll be taking a thousand dusty trips into the past.  When was the last time I used this cookbook?  What era of my life do 48 canning jars remind me of?  Would any of the boys care if I sell Aunt Peggy's crystal stemware--the set we always used at Sabbath dinners?  And is the  Lady Godiva Teddy Bear, boldly embroidered as chocolate PR, a whole lot of use anymore?  The chocolate was eaten 14 years ago.  Will anyone tell the gracious person who gave me the pricey dried-flower wreath with spider webs connecting its  crumbling petals that her appreciation will always be remembered?  It'll never survive storage.  SNEEZE.   Dust always settles on the past.

Nothing I can't get in Lebanon...if I need it!

But 
I'm also staring the blank look of the future in the face.   Will I value my chipped china in ten years?  What will this 15-year-old down comforter look like after it's stored for a decade?  Will I even remember that-I-never-needed-but-once-owned a green flower pot?  If I don't have my own guinea pig cage, will it affect my future  appreciably?  What's Larry's chances of rollerblading at 70?  Will I ever use this LaLanne juicer...ever?  After 40 years of knowing tennis is bad for our relationship, will these rackets be any good for us in the future?  

Is it hard to talk to myself like this?  Not really!  I'm glad to get rid of the unnecessary. I love the feeling of living lighter.  And when our "My Trash, Your Treasure" event is all over....when all this stuff has walked out of my garage door one way or another....when the scuffs on the walls show and my house echoes, nobody will have taken a single memory from me.  








By the way...about those thirty telephone messages.  Well, you know for sure  life has changed when only three of them are from real, living people who actually want to talk to us.  The rest are the same tele-machine's ominous message:

"In the event of death or serious illness..."   DELETE.  "In the event of death or serious illness..."  DELETE.  "In the event of death or serious illness..."  DELETE.   Twenty seven times.

Is it unnerving?   Not at all.  I'm thankful for a past of countless blessings.   I'm at peace with the present.   And the future is safely in God's hands.  

THE SHEEP ARE SAFE

Sometimes the things we do in order to bring a blessing to others are so packed full of blessing for ourselves that it almost feels selfish.

I didn't take my violin to Brazil.  On purpose.  Tribby had just done excellent maintenance on it in preparation for the journey to Beirut.  After dark stories of mean flight attendance, I didn't feel like hassling the airline industry about bringing my instrument on board.  And I thought it would be a relief to spend three weeks with absolutely no responsibilities--answering the phone and playing violin being chief among them.

I know that denies the music teacher, church activist, forever-engaged streak in me.  But it felt good to be where no one knows me, no one wants anything from me, no one is trying to relate and no one is going to expect a performance.  Is that the fantasy cave of a pastor's wife? A grumpy teacher?  A mother-of-many?

But I can't help myself.  

I was just melting into my uncommon comfort zone when the Institute instructors announced that there were four committees that would plan events for the group over the three weeks.  Oh.  No.   I knew they couldn't make me.  I could pretend shy.  I could pretend awkward.  I could pretend...

Searching for the least I could do and knowing Institute couldn't possibly involve concerts or productions like I know so well, I signed onto the music committee.  Three little songs each day before devotions.   Find a couple of good singers.  I don't sing.

But I forgot that we had to introduce ourselves and share our present livelihoods.  Yes, I teach violin.  Oh, for 30 years.  Little guys.  Somewhere around 40 or 50 at a time.   One of the instructors offered to get a violin from a friend on campus whose son plays.  I felt bad--almost as bad as the boy probably felt good--that he would miss his practice for three weeks.  But I don't enjoy my own singing as much as I like playing along with singers.

The violin offered me a blessing all its own...

Friday evening, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the girls' dorm lobby, it felt good to play  along with all the Institute families who'd gathered to open Sabbath.   I love folk playing.  With Marissa, a delightful pre-teen who had proudly brought her violin to Brazil, and Saulo, an exceptional guitarist who served during the week as our Portuguese translator, we had our own "missionary band."  We humored every age level, every style among us for almost two hours.

Sundown, storm and singing

Against the backdrop of a dramatic Brazilian storm and sunset, we moved breathlessly from  "Father Abraham" to "Grin Again Gang" to "This Train Is Bound for Glory" and dozens of other choruses from Australia I'd never heard.  :)  Paul knows every campfire ditty any Pathfinder leader has ever made up.  Big Vanston, the natural Goliath, collapsed impressively in "Only A Boy Named David."  (I'm sure the tile floor was hard.)   Little Megumi danced through most of the evening.  They say the entire three floors of the dorm enjoyed a lively Sabbath serenade. 

But when everyone disbanded in exhaustion, Saulo and his family stayed by.  I know the kind of people who forget meals, lose sleep, never stop playing music.  Those are the real musicians.  And they never require an audience.

For the Shepherd

That's Saulo.  And he plays anybody's choice of folk, contemporary, and the classics--all with a master's touch.  We just continued right on playing without the singers.   In a lull, he began the delicate introduction to Bach's, "Sheep May Safely Graze."  Years away from working the music with a struggling student, I eared through it.  With no audience, incredible acoustics, and nothing pressing to do on a quiet Sabbath evening, my heart centered.  

I felt like a helpless sheep, safe alongside a dependable, kind Shepherd, well cared for and loved.   It was a place of peace, of comfort in a chaotic passage of my life.  It was God singing to me.

The last Sabbath morning of Institute I had the opportunity--the blessing--of playing "Sheep May Safely Graze"  during our dedication service at the campus church.  With tears streaming down my face, I sang back to God.  Safety is not exactly a given in cross-cultural service.  It's not guaranteed for my young men left at home, making their way in life far out of my reach.  Or for all our families and friends stretched across the miles.  The future is not a blank check--for anybody.  

But I don't have to worry about the unknown.  The wolves.  The rocky cliffs.  The thickets of challenges ahead.  I don't have to build my own fortress, hide behind walls, jostle with the rest of the herd or hide in a cave.  All I need to do is press close to my Shepherd, knowing He will tend me with extreme care.  I can trust Him.  He is very, very good.

Best of all, He promises to gather my lambs in His arms and carry them close to His heart.  He will gently lead us as we leave our young in His care.  The sheep are safe.

AIR CULTURE

I observed an ingenious exercise in cultural adaptation these past three weeks.  It was a creative part of the curriculum at Institute--like the personality test, the ethnographic study, the stress analysis, the chanting and incense, and the four-culture game.  Unfortunately, I think if our class didn't blow the learning step altogether, we definitely revealed some questionable adaptation skills.

Dentists & their families
always have beautiful smiles

Our new friends from Korea
who work in Chile

Take a few theology professors, a dentist, several school teachers, a couple of managers, a division president, quite a few pastors and the inevitable pastors’ wives that come with them, a nurse or two, a medical doctor, a music teacher, a number of double-tasking mothers with helpful fathers.  Put all 36 of us, several instructors, plus a few observers into the same room for 90 hours.   It was a cultural immersion of its own.

Our new friends from Norway

 I’m sure we all came prepared for summer in Brazil, in spite of the fact that we came from Fiji, Michigan, Norway, Papua New Guinea, Chile, Colombia, St. Kits Island, Maryland, England, Georgia, French Guyana, Washington State and a few other exotic places.

We met in a lovely room--part of the newest addition to the School of Education complex at UNASP (Adventist University of Sao Paolo / Engenheiro Coelho campus in Brazil).  Tinted plate glass windows covered one entire wall, a small carpeted stage and white board were along another.  Nicely arranged discussion tables filled the room, each equipped with nothing but a small Kleenex box.  In one corner sat the essential computer/projection technology of an up-to-date classroom.  And on the back wall, high above our heads, two large air-conditioning units loomed like...well, like jet engines.  They were there to condition our air.  At least that's what we thought. 

They also blew papers around, drowned out important lectures, took turns disrupting communication, created stiff necks and runny noses, and created the atmosphere for the most creative of all assignments. 

The classroom & the air units

Now, we spent more than just the 90 hours of class time together.  We also shared two or three amazing meals each day (depending on how much extra weight you wanted to carry home), an evening get-acquainted party, a cultural afternoon on the streets of a small Brazilian town, a shopping trip, a banquet spread, a talent line-up called “Mission’s Got Talent,” a family communion service, and a tearful dedication.  That's a lot of time together.

The Chief 

No matter how you look at it, the Institute presented us with a culture all of its own, along with the accompanying adjustments:  Getting to class on time when you’re used to being the one taking attendance.  Not talking when you usually have the pulpit.   Focusing when you’re accustomed to engaging others’ attention.   Listening instead of emailing.  (Chief?)  Cooperating instead of disrupting.  Journaling.  Turning in assignments.  On time.  Simple.  If the learning curve was a little sharp for some, the instructors were patient.

But we never quite mastered climate adaptation.  I think it was the hidden chapter of the Mission Institute curriculum:  Thinking atmospherically.  I wish I’d tracked what I came to call the “air behaviors.”   These are unique, invariable, individual responses to humidity levels, gnat quotients, fly populations, wind speeds, air temperatures and general atmospheric distractions.

Now that my passing grade has already been turned in to Andrews University, let me share a few observations:  

Those sitting in the back tables thought the room temperature was a test in contextualizing northern cultures and brought scarves, sweaters, jackets and hoodies to class.  Those sitting near the windows thought that they were being presented a lesson in living wholistically and felt we needed fresh air coming through the entire wall all the time.  On days they were trying to be accommodating, they sneaked a single window open a thin six inches as if nobody would notice they were still letting in fresh air and gnats. Those who sat near the classroom door thought every class was a test of their cultural openness to other air "conditions", and during break would graciously empty the entire atmosphere of our classroom out into the humid hallways of the School of Education.  Occasionally someone in the back of the room where the remote control resided, thinking we were there to learn something about the tropics, shut off the air units altogether.  

Everyone’s air culture is different.  I think that’s why the Kleenex box sat at each table.  One tissue can squish a fly, keep gnats at bay, wipe sweat, book mark your reading, rub cold arms, blow an icy nose, fan steamy air in circles,  and—if you simply can’t adjust to the culture of Mission Institute—wipe a few overwhelming tears away.

Thank you, Institute instructors, for predicting the hardest part of meeting a new culture.  I'm going to pack a box of Kleenex for Lebanon.