I got the call from my husband yesterday afternoon while I was out hiking with our little boy amidst a spectacularly beautiful backdrop, vivid burnt orange rocks towering over us against the kind of brilliant closer-to-the-sun azure sky that only Colorado can deliver. I picked up my husband's call, greeting him with the same excitement and exuberance of our boy who had been steadily chattering away for the duration of the hike about this being "the best hike ever" and "full of so many beautiful things". My greeting was met with silence on the other end of the line. Now, my husband is single-handedly the most confident man I know, able to exude it with a quiet grace and humility that clearly differentiates it from arrogance. And yet here he was, speechless. He started to stammer and I felt the anxiety well up inside of me like a vice closing around my lungs until I begged him to tell me what's wrong, that he was scaring me. He finally blurted out that our pastor had emailed everyone the news that our friend, Mary, had died that morning. The rest of the call probably lasted two or so minutes, but I couldn't tell you exactly what either of us said. I was scanning the snow-packed meadows and rolling foothills before us, only half-processing what was being said, occasionally glancing over at our son who was happily playing in the snow and wearing an expression of utter delight, completely unaware that an entire community had just been rocked to its knees over this news. I wanted to hug and console my husband who was clearly upset on the other end of the line, and I simultaneously felt guilty for sounding like an emotionless robot, myself. He had broken the news to me mid-hike because he knew I would want to be out in nature where I could process and pray more clearheadedly.
We hung up and my boy looked at me quizzically until I told him what happened, that our dear friend from church, Mary, had died that morning. Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped his snowball, ran over to me and bear-hugged me, uttering, "I'm sorry, Mama." And the robot was gone. I sobbed, choking out explanations to him on why this woman was so special to me, to all of us. We slowly resumed our hike, which had now taken a completely different tone from not five minutes before when we had been reveling over the jaw-dropping beauty of the scenery around us. My tears flowed, making it harder to talk, but I managed to share with him some stories about why Mary was so special, and why this news is such a blow. He then shifted his caretaker mode from me to Mary, picking up a clump of snow, throwing it to the sky, and announcing, "God, can you please turn this snow into water and give it to Mary in heaven so she has something to drink?" Then he ran over to another snowy spot, fell to his knees, and started to build a snowman. "I think she'll like this," he explained soberly, "Mary, here is a snowman for you!" Then we walked a bit further and he laid down in the snow, flapping his arms and legs. "This is a snow angel for Mary!" he said, "And she'll like this because now she's an angel in heaven!" He shaped his hands into a heart and pointed it to the sky. "We love you, Mary!" he exclaimed. I just stared at him in awe. What an amazing heart our young man has. I would have expected a typical six year old's response, a three-word acknowledgement of the news, followed by complete indifference and the return to his former play. After all, empathy is not a quality that comes to kids until they're older. But instead, he went back and forth between hugging and consoling me, making little tributes to Mary, and shouting prayer-like requests to God up in the sky. I was floored. What a wonderful and perfect experience it was to grieve through the innocent and fearless eyes of a six year old. And everything he said was accurate. She is an angel in heaven. We do love her. She would certainly like that snow angel. And as I surveyed him and the scenery around me on our slow, steady trek, it provided the perfect opportunity for me to reflect on Mary.
I had heard about her before actually meeting her. Some of our church veterans had already known her before and they were excited to see her return to our church as the music director. Her reputation preceded her, as I heard nothing but ravings and excitement over her anticipated return. And when I met her, I was fascinated by her. She was this terrific blend of a no-nonsense personality, yet incredibly warm and loving. I got to know her when I was part of the church choir, and I was impressed with how she led and guided us. She was clearly exceptionally talented in music, able to hone in on the smallest details that made the difference between a good performance and a great one. But the single theme she always brought us home to was why we were singing. It was not about singing the notes perfectly, because we weren't just singing. We were worshipping. And she reminded us of that repeatedly, turning it into a far more powerful experience.
Throughout time and the little sidebar conversations that I so enjoyed having with her, she learned that I was a cellist. "You should play for the church," she said matter of factly. "Oh, I don't know....maybe?" I countered, "I'm not very good anymore. I lost my chops when I got pregnant and moved to Colorado, and my technique is pretty weak now...." I had a convincing list of very reasonable excuses all lined up for her, all of these reasons why I might not be able to play for a crowd, let alone for God. And Mary being Mary basically called that out for the horse dung that it was. (smiling as I type this) And she made me realize that - doy! - it doesn't work like that. God knows when I play sharp or flat, but guess what. He doesn't care! Once again, it's about why I'm playing, not what I'm playing, as Mary reminded me.
So next thing you know, I was playing cello for the church. I got to play with accompanying pianists, choirs, handbells, and I even played a solo. And I was frayed with nerves every time, although I tried my best to hide it. But something happened as my cello journey at the church continued. As time passed, I continued my deep-dive into Christianity, enthralled with how much there was to learn, inspired by my peers during discipleship hours, excited by the missionaries who allowed me to be a part of their action plans, and delighted by the children I got to help teach during Sunday school. And as Jesus' big picture message continued to sink into my head and heart, I found that playing the cello at church became more fun. In the beginning, it was technique this and notes that. It was worrying whether I'm getting these dynamics right, listening for tempos, double-checking my left hand position, relaxing my right wrist, watching my bow on the string to make sure it doesn't ride too high on the fingerboard, and on and on and on. At rehearsals, I made sure to squeeze in as many self-deprecating jokes as possible and point out my wrong notes to anyone who missed them, all of which Mary dismissed with an eye roll. Amazingly, she would instead encourage everyone to give me a round of applause at the end of the rehearsals, thanking me for my help. (Which often left me thinking, They're applauding that? Seriously?)
But as time marched on, Mary kept believing in me and encouraging me, no matter how hard I tried to get in my own way. She kept reminding me, in her ever graceful and warm style, of the real reason we're here playing this music. Then, I started paying more attention to the words of the songs I was playing. And more and more, the "worship" element of it started to sink in. And Mary's message was always in the back of my mind: You are worshipping God. You are giving Him and your fellow worshippers joy through your music. Bear in mind, the woman was battling cancer throughout. Never mind that she was neck-deep in combat with one of the cruelest diseases known to man, and fighting for another day with her husband and three children. Never mind all that; she was helping me be confident. This is what amazed me about her. When I try to imagine myself in her situation, I see my potential to become enmeshed in total selfishness. I see potential for self-pity, fear, and anxiety. What I don't see is me helping a grown woman work through some trivial musical confidence issue while I'm literally fighting for my life. And yet that's Mary. Sound like anyone we know? (Luke 23:34)
The last few times that I was privileged enough to work with Mary on a piece, she mentioned that my playing had become much stronger and more confident. And she was right; it had, thanks to her. And of all of the performances I've ever given in my 10+ years of playing cello, accepting her invitation to play at last year's Maundy Thursday service was absolutely the highlight of my journey.
I suspect I'm not the only one who found this past December to be bittersweet for all of us who played for the church (or anyone who knew her, for that matter). On one hand, I felt like I was floating on an island a little bit, with no Mary to lead us. Her health was declining and she was back and forth between home and hospital. On the other hand, when my musical help was asked for, the hesitation that I had once known was absolutely gone. We all knew we had a job to do, and we were doing it for God and our church, because that's what Mary would want us to do. I watched people gracefully and humbly step into incredibly time-consuming, demanding, and stressful new roles to fill in for Mary's absence and make her proud. I watched musicians come together to pull off beautiful musical arrangements, despite their insane schedules of juggling parenting with work with the usual holiday madness. I watched our congregation inspire each other, and become an even closer church family. And I watched the pain in their faces mirror my own as we all wept during yesterday's first church service without Mary in this material world. She will always be a part of our church, because she will always be a part of our hearts. She left a mark. She stamped the world around her with beauty, and wisdom, and laughter, and kindness....but most of all with faith. I have never seen such a display of faith. I have never seen someone look the next chapter in the eye with such beautiful calm and assurance that she is a part of God's great plan, and that she is safe in the palm of His hand. Mary, I miss you terribly, and I know our church will never be the same without you. But I also know that our church isn't without you. Not really. For you are always with us. And you've instilled a little of your rock-solid faith into us, which makes us all better Christians. Thank you for the gift of being you, my dear sister, and until we meet again, friend...
Joshua 1:9
Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.
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