C. David Belt's Blog, page 20

And We Can Do Better

This morning, as we were rehearsing for today’s broadcast of “Music and the Spoken Word,” Brother Wilberg said, “I listened to the recording we made of this piece on Thursday night”—he was speaking about a particular song that is very difficult to sing well—“and I can honestly say that this is best we’ve ever done. It’s really, really good.” He paused, smiled, and said, “And we can do better.”

It was nice to hear that he was pleased with our performance. When he says that something we’ve done is “really, really good,” that’s not an idle complement. Mack Wilberg doesn’t give idle complements, at least not to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

So he thought we did very well, but he also thought we could do even better. So this morning, we worked hard to make the song even better.

And after the broadcast, he gave us two thumbs up.

So isn’t “really, really good” good enough?

Of course it is. But if that’s the case, why push to do even better?

After my mission, I only attended one reunion of the Korea-Seoul Mission. When my wife and I arrived, the first thing that struck me was that many of the men had long hair and beards. But long hair and beards were only part of the problem. Of course, that wasn’t how I remembered most of them, but it was something else that bothered me. The missionary fire and zeal was gone. Now I realize that none of us were serving fulltime missions anymore, but so many of them seemed lost or were simply drifting through life.

One of my old mission presidents was the featured speaker. In his talk, he said, “If your mission was the best two years of your life, you’ve failed.” He told us that we needed to be anxiously engaged in serving the Lord and that we needed to be constantly seeking to better ourselves through service, education, marriage, study, and prayer. He told us that if we were not progressing, we were in a state of temporary damnation.

He told us that we don’t need to be stagnant, that the best is not behind us, that we must move forward. In short, he called us to repentance. And it was glorious.

What a redeeming concept! No matter how poorly I have done in the past… or how well, I can always strive to be better.

In the Choir, we are often told that we are only as good as our last broadcast. In other words, we need to constantly strive to be better. It doesn’t matter so much how good we were in the past. We need to push harder to be even better next time.

So today, we sang a really difficult song. And we sang it well. We probably sang it better than we’ve ever sung it before.

And next time, we’ll try to sing it even better.

Fourteen Years Later

On afternoon of 9/11/2001, I had to go to my children’s elementary school for reasons I can no longer remember. While there, I ran into one of my children’s teachers. He asked me, “How are you feeling?”

I responded, “I wish I was still flying a B-52.”

He shook his head and said, “I want to understand what we did to provoke this attack.”

I was stunned. I’m rarely at a loss for words, but it took me several seconds to recover. When I did, I replied, “I don’t care. Nothing… nothing justifies this.”

I still stand by that statement. Nothing justifies the slaughter of innocents. I don’t care what grievances the fiends who orchestrated the 9-11 attacks or the murderers who personally perpetrated them might claim; what they did was evil and unjustifiable.

And on 9/12/2001, we came together as a nation. We stood in line for hours to donate blood. We gave money to the Red Cross. Some of us enlisted in the military. Some of us sent our sons and daughters, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers off to war. Others simply hugged our neighbors and mourned with those that mourn.

And that was good and right.

However, I will never forget an interview that President Gordon B. Hinckley gave sometime within the first year after the attacks. Sadly, I cannot find the interview or the exact quote, but the essence of what he said is that, while he saw a lot of patriotic fervor, he saw very little of repentance. In other words, we have not turned to God.

And here we are, fourteen years later.

We have attempted military action, and while we can debate the success or failure of said military action, the Islamist evil and violence has grown like a cancer. A caliphate has been established in the Middle East. Christians and Jews and Muslims who don’t practice the horrific and satanic “religion” of the Islamists in the way the Islamists demand are slaughtered, raped, mutilated, and enslaved.

In other words, for all our efforts, in spite of the blood split, the bodies maimed, the families devastated—in spite of all the sacrifice—the evil has grown.

How can that be? How can evil thrive?

The answer is simple: we have not served the God of this land. We have not served Jesus Christ. Instead, in the fourteen years since we “woke up” as a nation, we have turned away from Jesus Christ. We have increasingly bowed down to other gods. We have worshipped Baal, Ashtoreth, Mammon, and Moloch.

Baal worship was characterized by a veneration of the earth and sky. We worship the earth and sky by claiming that the greatest “sin” of this generation man-made global warming. (Or, since the earth hasn’t been warming for decades, “climate change,” “climate chaos,” or even “climate weirding.”) Our own president has blamed the rise of the Islamists on global warming and has ordered our military to combat climate change. We have driven people into poverty and unemployment, destroyed whole communities, and set ourselves at each other’s throats—all in the name of “climate change.” All in the name of Baal.

Ashtoreth worship was characterized by sexual immorality and raising that immorality to the status of “virtue.” We celebrate sexual perversion. We display it in high-definition in our movie theatres, on our television screens, on our computer monitors. We read filth in our novels and call it “romance.” We take that which should be sacred and private and splash on billboards, television commercials, even in literature aimed at children. We have declared the gospel of “tolerance” to be superior to the word of God. We persecute, target, fine, and now imprison those who refuse to participate in or endorse that which the Lord Jehovah has declared to be an abomination. We celebrate out-wedlock-births and set legal and financial roadblocks to adoption. We turn a blind eye to sexual slavery. Did you know that most of the foreign customers who patronize child brothels come from the Unites States? We attempt to separate children from the influence and values of their parents by lengthening the school day and the school year, by feeding children three meals a day at school (even when the children are not in school), by indoctrination, by telling children that they are wiser than their parents and should no longer listen to said bigoted, benighted parents. We tell children and adults that gender is fluid, something that depends on how we feel from day to day, and encourage them to explore and discover any possible combination of male, female, or something as yet undefined. We give breast enhancements to teenagers, and sexual reassignment hormones and surgery to children. We encourage kindergarteners to choose their own gender. We force teenage girls to share a locker room with and shower alongside a wig-wearing boy who “identifies as female.” We celebrate homosexuality, asexuality, and bisexuality in the name of “being true to ourselves.” We call Bruce Jenner “brave” and call for the next version of Spider-Man to be “pansexual.” And anybody who dares to disagree is a “hater” and a “bigot.” In fact, we justify any level of hatred in the name of “Love wins!” And we are so afraid of being labeled a “hater,” “bigot,” or “bully,” that we won’t stand up. We call good evil and evil good. We are bowing down to Ashtoreth.

Mammon worship is the celebration of greed. We worship money and that which money can buy. We envy those who have more than we do. Instead of encouraging charity, we enforce and demand the redistribution of the property of others through taxation. We deify Che and Mao and place their images on our T-shirts and handbags and White House Christmas ornaments, because—in spite of the fact that they were horrific mass murderers—they were “champions of the little guy.” We worship and celebrate greed and covetousness in ourselves while vilifying it in others. We are bowing down to Mammon.

Moloch worship was typified by the horrific sacrifice of children. Recently, we learned that Planned Parenthood is selling baby parts for profit, that babies are being born ALIVE and then vivisected (i.e., dissected while still alive) to get “intact specimens.” And somehow we STILL give money to support these Mengele-style murderers. In fact, as a nation, we hardly batted an eye or paused the latest episode of “Celebrity Wife Swap” when we heard the news. Others covered their eyes, ears, and mouths like the proverbial three monkeys and said, “I don’t want to know. I only want to know about happy and uplifting things.” Like the Wicked Witch in “The Wiz,” we say, “Don’t you bring me no bad news!” Recently, a rally at the state capitol of UTAH drew hundreds of supporters of the baby-murder mills, while inside a couple dozen people prayed for an end to the mass murder of tens of millions of innocents. I am ashamed to say that my friend who organized the small group to pray inside invited me to join him, but I was “too busy.” Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood (who by her own unabashed admission created the infant slaughterhouses to exterminate the black race) would be pleased to know that more black babies are aborted now than born. And this monster is celebrated as a “feministic icon.” We have progressive icons today who call for elective abortion until a child is two years old, because “they are not fully human.” And we “don’t want to know.” Moloch worship is alive and well in 2015. And we are at best tolerating it.

We are on the cusp of allying ourselves with Iran, the largest state sponsor of terrorism and Islamist murder, against Israel. According to the non-treaty agreement (because a treaty would require the approval of the senate), we would have to defend IRAN against ISRAEL should Israel have the temerity to destroy the nuclear weapons facilities in Iran. This is in spite of Iran’s constitution and the reigning mullahs’ avowal that Israel must be wiped off the face of the map and the fact that the Koran states that every Jew must be slaughtered. What was it again that the Lord said over and over would happen to the nations that rise up against Israel? Are we REALLY going to choose to be on the side of Gog and Magog?

The Book of Mormon states repeatedly that if we do not serve the God of the land, even Jesus Christ, we will be swept off the face of the land.

So how are we doing, America, fourteen years after 9/11/2001? Have we turned back to God? Are we serving Him? Or are we bowing down to Baal, Ashtoreth, Mammon, and Moloch?

New Images From “The Armor of God”

Images from my upcoming non-fiction book, “The Armor of God”.  They’re starting to come in from our very talented photographer, Olya Goodrick.  I’m so excited to finally be putting this all together!

Ladies, that’s my son, Jacob.  He’s a returned missionary, temple-worthy, and single!

I Have a Backyard Lawn. Oh, Joy.

I mowed my backyard today. And while that may not sound like a momentous occasion to most, it was the very first time my backyard has ever been mowed. We bought our home more than three years ago. It was new construction. Almost since the day we moved in, I have been laboring to landscape the desolation that surrounded our home.

Now, I’m the kind of guy who loathes paying someone else to do something I can do for myself, even if I have to learn—especially if I have to learn—how to do it. Since I was sixteen, I have done almost all the repairs on my own vehicles, learning as I went. It has only been in recent years I stopped doing that (primarily because it would violate the warranty on my vehicles). I do my own plumbing if at all possible. I do my own electrical work and install all the appliances myself. I sharpen my own swords, axes, knives, and spears. I am (among several other things) an engineer, so I love learning how things work. I make a lot of mistakes. (A LOT of mistakes.) And sometimes (possibly more often than I care to admit), it may end up costing me more in the end to do things myself than it would if I paid a professional to perform the same task.

So back to the lawn.

I designed and installed the entire sprinkler system myself with the exception of a few hours help from a homeless man named Rodney and the installation of the stop-and-waste valve. (I had to pay a plumber $250 dollars for that job—and that was after I dug the hole myself. Grrr!) That was a steep learning curve! One of the valve boxes (containing three valves) had to be rebuilt several times. I’ve experienced the dubious wonders of bursting valves, exploding sprinkler heads, and geysers reminiscent of Yellowstone. I have graciously created a swamp in one part of the yard for mosquitos to breed in, and my neighbors are very appreciative, I’m sure. (I’m still working on eliminating the swamp. Almost there. Almost there.) But, Your Honor, I was just trying to create a nature preserve for the endangered mosquito. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

That first summer, I completed the sprinkler system in the front and side yards.

The next year, we brought top soil and leveled the front and side yards. My neighbors graciously helped with this part, and I am grateful for their help. Then we planted grass seed. (No, we didn’t opt for instant-lawn by doing sod. My neighbor, Juan, told me that the sod grown around here isn’t quite right for the area. He recommended seeding and told me the type of seed to buy. So we planted grass seed. By the end of the summer, the front and side yards were the envy of the neighborhood. (I’m not bragging or exaggerating here, as my neighbors will attest.) Thank you, Juan!

Over the last winter, my octogenarian father dug a massive hole in my backyard that I intend to turn into a fishpond someday. He and I used the dirt from the hole to level the backyard. It was a massive job. It’s an IMPRESSIVE hole, believe me! Thank you, Dad! This spring, I designed and installed the sprinkler system for the backyard. My dad dug most of the trenches (he likes to dig—not kidding), but I did the rest of the work myself. I made lots of mistakes on that system as well. (Hey, at least I’m consistent!) We decided to plant grass seed before Cindy and I went on tour with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in June and July. That way, when we got back from Tour, we’d have grass all over the backyard.

Well, that was the plan anyway.

When we got back, I discovered to my dismay (although it shouldn’t have come as a surprise) that two of the three sprinkler valves had failed, leading to flooding in some areas and wasted grass seed in others. So, we replanted. And replanted. And replanted. (I think the last huge bag of grass seed might have gotten too hot at some point, making the seed nonviable.) A couple of Saturdays ago, I put grass-patch on the problem spots. Those spots have yet to come in, but I’m confident they will.

Anyway, my backyard is now a yard, and not a desolation of weeds, hard-packed clay, huge rocks, and construction debris.

And today, I mowed the backyard for the first time (after mowing the front and side yards, of course). I also did all the weed trimming. Victory! Right?

Well, I suppose…

You see, I despise yardwork. And now I have even MORE yardwork to do each week. (And of course, I’m unwilling to pay someone else to mow it for me and I refuse to let my wife do it.) And I no longer have teenagers at home to help out. And yes, you read that right—I have to mow my lawn EACH AND EVERY WEEK. Even after all my mistakes, my lawn grows so well and is so healthy, thick, and green, I can’t let it go more than seven days without mowing it. If I put it off even a single extra day, the grass is significantly more difficult to mow. On top of all that, I’m still recovering from knee and ankle injuries, so that makes this type of activity extra odious.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I do find joy in the fact that the yard is something I crafted by hand and that it looks great. Perhaps I am guilty of the sin of pride here. Ah well, I guess I have one more thing to repent of. (Get in line, lawn-pride!)

But I still HATE yardwork. I hate it. I loathe it. I despise it. Frankly, yardwork sucks!

Did I mention I hate yardwork? Well, I do.

But this is exactly what I wanted: I wanted a yard. I worked VERY HARD (and am VERY BLESSED) to have this yard.

It’s a lot like parenting a child. You want to have a child, and when that the nurse places that tiny, fragile, alien-looking thing in your arms, you weep with joy at the beauty you and your wife and God created. And then you have to change diapers and clean up vomit and kiss boo-boos all better and discipline and go to elementary school concerts and weep at their mistakes and cheer at their triumphs and suppress the urge to go punch the bullies in the face and weep with her when she doesn’t get asked to the prom and sit in the living room with a shotgun (or in my case, a sword—not kidding) waiting for that pimply-faced twerp with the stupid haircut to bring her home on time if she DID get asked to prom. It’s like anything truly good in life: you have to work really hard and worry and weep and rejoice.

And the reverse is true. Much of the pain we endure in this life is self-inflicted. We do it to ourselves. We make choices, and the consequences come. You are always free to choose, but you are not free to avoid the consequences of your choices. And if your choices are wrong, someone must always pay that consequence: you, those you love, those who love you, sometimes complete strangers, and, if you repent, the Savior.

So now I have a brand-spanking-new backyard.

And I get to mow it.  Every stinking week.

Yippee.

She’s Still Here!

I have been a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for nearly eight and a half years. And so far, they haven’t kicked me out. I love being in the Choir and look forward to each rehearsal, broadcast, and concert. Our Thursday night rehearsals are one of the highlights of my week.

But this morning at 5:00 when my alarm clock fulfilled its purpose and dutifully woke me from sleep, it wasn’t long before I realized that I was not feeling well (to put it mildly). Since I didn’t have a fever, I prayed for the Lord’s help to get me through the drive to and from Salt Lake City, the rehearsal, the run-through, and the broadcast. I am happy to report that I received the divine help I pleaded for, because I did not want to miss a chance to sing with the Choir.

Even after more than eight years, I am still amazed that I have this great blessing and opportunity to serve my God in this way. This morning in the Choir loft of the Conference Center, I turned to bass sitting next to me and said, “Hey, Ryan! Guess what? We get to sing with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir today! How cool is that?”

He grinned back and said, “You know, that is cool.”

On Friday, my sweet, gorgeous wife and I celebrated our 34th wedding anniversary. As of today, I have been sealed to this wonderful woman for 12,420 days! And best part is, those twelve thousand, four-hundred, and twenty days are just the beginning.

I love to walk through the door at the end of the workday and receive her welcome-home kiss. It brightens my day when she sends me an out-of-the-blue I-love-you text when I’m at work. I so enjoy sitting on the porch swing with her watching the sun setting or the geese (or as I call them, “long-necked bats”) flying overhead to land in the nearby cornfield, or simply gazing at the mountains. Heck, it’s even fun to watch the sprinklers. She still makes me dinner. She still does the laundry. She still cleans the house. She still cuts my hair. She does all these wonderful things for me—and many more besides.

She puts up with me. And if that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is!

I love to hear her snore. She doesn’t snore loudly, but she does snore. And I take comfort in that sweet sound. It means she’s sleeping peacefully.

She’s my soulmate—not because she was born to be my soulmate, or destined to be my soulmate, but because we have worked together—and continue to work together—to be soulmates. Soulmates are forged in labor and love, not born. And I hope to spend the rest of my life and all of eternity working together to become one with each other.

Now, our marriage isn’t perfect. (Let’s face it: any equation that includes me as a factor is not going to resolve to perfection.) So it’s not perfect, but it is good. It’s wonderful. And every morning in my prayers, I thank my Heavenly Father for my dear, beautiful, extraordinary Cindy.

In short, I am continually, blissfully amazed that she is still here, still with me. I feel like saying, “Hey, sweetheart! Guess what? We’re married! We’re sealed for time and all eternity. And we get to be together today. How utterly, astoundingly cool is that?”

Assume It’s Me

“We have a note from the sound booth,” Brother Wilberg said. “There is a baritone whose voice is a little too strong. It‘s coming from that microphone right in the center of the bass section, and it’s the one pointed straight down. Look up. If the microphone is right over you, it could be you.” He paused, then uttered a very familiar—at least to the Choir—directive, “Assume it’s you.”

We were rehearsing for the Pioneer Day concerts. I looked up. I was right under the indicated microphone.

Now please understand: I work very hard at blending in with the other voices in the baritone section and in the Choir. I don’t want my voice to stand out. I was pretty certain that I was not the person whom the sound technicians were noticing. HOWEVER, as Brother Wilberg frequently says, “Assume it’s you.” So I did. I assumed it was me and acted accordingly. I listened more carefully to make sure my voice did not unravel the fabric of sound we were all working so hard to weave.

It doesn’t matter if my voice were the clearest, most perfect instrument of vocal music ever created. When I’m with the Choir, I’m not there to sing a solo; I’m there to participate in the creation of harmony, to blend my offering with others, to create true and miraculous beauty.

But what if I’m the one singing the words and notes correctly, and the nearby brethren of the Choir are not? As inconceivable as that may be, I am sometimes right and they are sometimes wrong. (I know. I know. You can stop laughing now. Really, you can. Breathe. That’s it. You’ll burst a blood vessel. Good. That’s better.) When I know I’m in the right, I can gently remind my brethren. I can point out the mistake by opening the sheet music and pointing to the erroneously sung note. Usually, if I can show the exact place in the music, the others will make the adjustment. However, often there are handwritten changes in the music that represent the interpretation of the previous steward of the sheet music or the previous conductor. Sometimes, such changes are no longer applicable. They may be erased or crossed out. When that happens, there can be differences of opinion.

For example, today, one chorus we sang had the word “all” crossed out and replaced by a handwritten “the”. Most people in the section had this change written in. However, in my music, the change hand been erased. (In other words, at one point we did sing “the”, but now we were supposed to sing the original text.) So there was a brief discussion as to which word we should sing. We didn’t have time to refer the question to Brother Wilberg, so we decided to sing the text as written. As we listened to the rest of the Choir, it became obvious that most (but not all) of the Choir was singing the original text. So, as it turned out, I was correct and my position on the subject was adopted by the entire section.

However, if it had turned out the other way (i.e., if the section had decided to sing “the” instead of “all”) I would not have improved our performance by loudly (or even softly) singing the correct word. If I had done that, my voice would have stuck out. AFTER the performance, I could have pointed out the problem to the section leader, and HE could have gone to Brother Wilberg for clarification. That would have been the correct way to handle the situation.

(NOTE: The chorus in question was composed by George Frederick Handel. So, one could say that would have been the correct way to Handel the situation, but that would just be too punny, so let’s not go there.)

When I was in junior high school in Suitland, Maryland, I was a member of the school choir (because we had moved to a new state and city, and the new school didn’t have an orchestra and my cello just wouldn’t fit in with the school marching band). Our choir teacher that year decided that we would sing a song entitled “That’s the Time I Feel Like Making Love to You.” You read that correctly (and hopefully, more than once): she thought this song was appropriate for 7th, 8th, and 9th graders to sing. Actually, I’m having a hard time believing this would be appropriate for any choir composed of children to sing. Ever. (Or adults, for that matter, but I digress.) But that song was on our concert program. Not only that, we went around to elementary schools to sing this song.

When I went to the teacher privately and told her (very politely, in my opinion) that I could not sing that song, my teacher (who was normally a very nice lady) told me that I would sing it or I would get an “F” in the class. (NOTE: Most people know that performance music classes in junior high school are typically an “easy A,” so long as you show up, participate, and have a good attitude. Apparently, my teacher considered my position to be unacceptable.) I told her that I would not sing those lyrics. She told me that I would just have to live with the consequences.

When the choir sang that particular song, I simply closed my mouth and did not sing. I did NOT leave the risers or make a scene or shout a protest or carry a sign saying, “This song is sinful!” I simply quietly obeyed my conscience. The first couple of times the choir sang that song, my teacher gave me the “evil eye.” But after the first couple of performances, she simply ignored my abstention.

And I still got an “A” in the class.

As mortal and imperfect sons and daughters of God, we sometimes come into conflict with those around us, especially over matters of conscience. When such contentions arise, there is very little we can do to change the behavior or opinions of others. We can lead by example. We can declare truths. We can strive to live according to those truths. We can invite others to listen to and accept those truths. But we can’t change another person’s heart. Truly changing a heart can only be accomplished by two people working together: the person to whom the heart belongs and the Holy Ghost. I can’t change your heart and you can’t change mine. And attempting to do so, attempting to force you to say or act as if you agree with me would be as evil you trying to coerce me to act as if I agree with you.

On the other hand, we should NEVER compromise our principles. We should never call evil good or good evil. We should never try make the two equivalent, because they are not and can never be equivalent.

But we can still be Christ-like to those who disagree with us.

Recently, I saw a billboard where a cartoonish face with a white beard and a big smile was depicted in front of a rainbow. The caption said, “God loves gays.” In response, I declare that He DOES love those who practice a homosexual lifestyle. God loves all his children. That is an immutable truth. He also says, “For I the Lord cannot look upon sin with the least degree of allowance.” (D&C 1:31) This also is an immutable truth. So God does indeed love gays. He also loves me in spite of my many sins. He also loves abortionists, but that does not mean that he tolerates the murder of innocent children.

The day is coming—indeed it is already here—when those who refuse to call evil good, who refuse to violate their consciences, who refuse to participate in that which God has called an abomination will be persecuted, fined, punished, and imprisoned by those who demand that everyone agree with them. This has happened over and over again throughout human history. This tactic is not new. And in every age of the world, there have been saints who refuse to bow, who refuse to equate the philosophies of men with the word of God.

We must stand fast, but we must do so without resorting to the enemy’s tactics. We must love the sinner while refusing to tolerate the sin, but we must do so as Jesus did. He said, “Nevertheless, thou art not excusable in thy transgressions; nevertheless, go thy way and sin no more.” (D&C 24:2) Always remember that repentance is possible, even for the vilest of sinners—even for you and me.

Repentance is not a word of condemnation. Crying, “Repentance!” is not damning; it is redeeming. It is a cry of hope, of love, of mercy. It is a way of saying, “There is a way back! There is hope! Don’t give up! Don’t surrender to sin. Flee from it. Flee unto Him who has paid for our sins—yours and mine. He will heal you. He will make you whole.”

I’ve got my sins, and you have yours, whatever they are. And while I will do what I can to gently help you along your path of repentance, I will continue along my own path. I cannot change you. I’m not trying to change you.

Because, you see, the only person I can try to fix is myself. Whenever there’s a conflict between you and me, rather than trying to force you to change, I’m going to “Assume it’s me.”

MTC Tour Aftermath: A Very Personal Miracle

In my last post, I talked about the pain I’ve been dealing with for the past eight months or so.  I also said that I was more than willing to endure the pain to experience the blessing of serving in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  If that is the sacrifice God asks of me, I will gladly offer it.

Since coming home from tour, things have not slowed down.  We had rehearsal on Thursday night.  On Friday morning, we sang at the funeral of President Boyd K. Packer.  Today, of course, we had the broadcast and an extra rehearsal afterward.  This week, we have the Pioneer Day concerts.  (Monday and Wednesday are the only days I will not be at Choir this week.)

When I awoke this morning at 5 AM to get ready meet my Choir carpool at 6 AM, I was greeted by the familiar pain in my knees and ankle.  When we arrived at Temple Square, my knees were still pretty stiff.  I remember pain when I was changing into the wardrobe for the day (black suit and gold tie).  Then I began the long walk to the Conference Center that leads through tunnels and the steep ramps in the parking garage.  Once in the Conference Center, I remember pain as I climbed the stairs into the Choir loft to Row 5.  We rehearsed until about 8:35, at which time we started the run-through.

However, it was just before the run-through that I realized I was not experiencing ANY pain.  No pain at all.  And I was free from pain throughout the run-through.  After the run-through, we had a short break (about 15 minutes or so) before we had to be back in our seats for the broadcast.  I STOOD for the entire break (i.e., I didn’t look for a place to sit).  I was pain-free for the entire broadcast.  After the broadcast, I walked back to the wardrobe room.  I walked quickly, almost skipping all the way.

As I write this, I am still pain-free.

I can’t honestly remember the last time I went through an entire broadcast (or a full day) without significant (read, “excruciating”) pain in my feet or legs.  I know it’s been YEARS.

I don’t know if this miracle is temporary or if it will continue, but I am grateful, even if it is only for today.  I don’t know if this blessing is a “reward” for enduring, but even if the pain returns tomorrow (or Tuesday night at our next rehearsal), I’ll still be grateful.

Today, I was able to sing my heart out for the Lord, free from physical pain.

This morning, we sang Mendelssohn’s “Happy and Blessed Are They Who Have Endured”.  This took on special meaning for me today.

MTC Tour Day 14: The Rest of the Story

We’re home from tour (actually on I-15, driving home).  And I am VERY happy to be back.

In my daily vignettes about tour on this blog, I have focused on the wonderful, the miraculous, and the many, many positive aspects of tour.  I have been very, very blessed to be a part of this tour.  And I am very, very grateful.

Did I mention I was very grateful?  Well, it’s true.

However, there is more to the story.  And now that tour is over, I would like to share it with you.  Please stick around and read the whole post.  Well, here goes…

I injured my left knee back in November, right in the middle of rehearsals for the Choir Christmas concerts.  The roundtrip walk from the Church Office Building parking lot to the Tabernacle to pick up our music (and possibly dress in wardrobe) and to the Choir loft in the Conference Center is about 1.25 miles.  That’s a tough walk when your knee is screaming at you with every step.  But there simply was no time to slow down.  So I just kept going.

While favoring my left knee, I injured my right ankle.  Then I developed a plantar fasciitis in my right foot.  Walking was painful and standing (such as during a broadcast or concert) was agony.  I finally went to a podiatrist, got a cortisone shot in my foot, and orthopedic inserts for my shoes.  I got another cortisone shot in my knee and had some fluid drained from it.  While all this helped… somewhat, the healing has been—shall we say—slow.

Before leaving on tour, my doctor gave me medications to manage the pain while I heal.  I have four different pills that I take.  I’m following my doctor’s advice and don’t exceed the prescribed dosage.  However, standing during a concert is really… difficult.  Add to that a mile-long hike to and from a venue (such as we did at Carnegie Hall), and the difficulty multiplies.

When we sang at Yankee Stadium, we had to stand for nearly three hours straight in order to sing for five minutes.  Let’s just say that by the time I got to my seat (at the end of the fourth inning, no less), I was in a LOT of pain.  In addition, we have had some LONG bus rides.  Most of the time, my knees are crammed up against the seat in front of me.  This has been difficult as well.

If I take enough medication to keep the pain in-check (notice that I said, “in-check,” and not “eliminated”), I get nauseated—not a good thing to happen during a concert.  So, I try to time the medication so I don’t get sick until AFTER I get back to the hotel or at least when I’m on the bus-ride back to the hotel.  (Standing—because there isn’t enough room to kneel—in a tiny bus “bathroom” while puking and trying to make sure all of the vomit goes into the tiny toilet is just loads of fun.)

When we got to the hotel in Boston Sunday night, we realized we had left my CPAP machine in the hotel in New York City.  The NYC hotel is very graciously shipping it back to Utah for me—free of charge—but in the meantime, I am unable to sleep for more than a minute at a time without the machine.  Needless to say, I’m exhausted.  It’s been two sleepless nights so far, and it will probably be about a week before the machine arrives.

Then to top it all off, yesterday, as I was walking into the venue in Boston, I tripped on a brick in the pavement and fell, landing head-first on the sidewalk.  That was bad enough, but I managed to do my face-plant right in front of President Jarrett (President of the Choir) and Dr. Price (the Choir’s physician).  As I struggled to my feet, rubbing my head and wiping away the blood on my hand (I don’t even remember striking my hand on the pavement), saying, “I’m OK,” my only thought (other than “Ouch!”) was, “Please don’t tell me I can’t sing in the concert tonight!”  I didn’t voice that thought, but it was foremost in my mind.

Seriously—I was more worried that I might not be allowed to sing than I was about a possible concussion.

As it turns out, the result of the impact to my thick skull seems to be limited to a lump on my eye-socket.  So, it’s not a concussion—it’s not serious.  I’m more in danger of getting a black eye than any lasting cranial damage.  The bleeding on my hand was just a minor scrape.  I’m going to be all right.  My dignity—or what remained of it after 55 years of—well, being me—is dead.

And while I was out on tour, my doctor’s office called and confirmed that the little mole on my back is cancerous.  I get it removed tomorrow.  Yay!  And hopefully, that’ll be the end of that, although we’ll keep a watch on it.

But, I’m not alone in dealing with problems during tour.  Many of us have problems with our feet and legs.  We’re not all young whipper-snappers, after all.  I know of one woman whose feet swell so badly that she hasn’t done any sightseeing at all, because she’s saving her strength for the concerts.  Another woman was shoved off a curb (most likely on accident) and badly sprained her ankle.  Another woman in the Choir came up to me last night after our final concert and gave me a hug.  She said, “I heard about your fall.”  (Apparently, EVERYBODY has heard about my Three Stooges impression.)  “I have troubles with that too,” she said.  “I fall a lot.”  Other people are dealing with problems at home.  One woman in the Choir had to fly out late to join us in New York City, because her husband just had major surgery.  Others are agonizing over wayward children.  (I can sympathize with that.)  Others are self-employed and are giving up two weeks of income.  Others must continue to work at their jobs remotely, using virtually every spare minute.  (I can sympathize with that one too.)  Others are sacrificing family vacations to be on tour.  Others are quietly dealing with heartaches which they choose not to share.  The simple truth is that all of us are dealing with something.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because it’s all been worth it.

I have had so many wonderful, miraculous experiences on this tour.  I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  I haven’t asked for Heavenly Father to remove the pain.  All I have asked for is the strength to endure, because the blessings I have received are beyond priceless.  They are worth every fleeting moment of exhaustion and pain.  Because the pain is fleeting.  The exhaustion is temporary.  But the blessings are glorious and eternal.

And that which is eternal is worth any temporary sacrifice.  Raising children will bring you more joy and more sadness than anything else you could possibly do in this life.  But it’s worth it.  Being a member of this Church will bring upon you persecution from others, but the eternal blessings are worth it.  We just have to endure to the end.  That means enduring the temporary to be granted the eternal through the amazing grace of Jesus Christ.

Now as I come to the end of this glorious adventure that has been the 2015 tour of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Orchestra at Temple Square, I’m not going to dwell on the pain that I’ve had to endure.  No, I will remember the joy of seeing audiences leap to their feet with tears in their eyes, of feeling the Spirit poured out upon us like a musical Pentecost, of having complete strangers come up to me and thank me with tears in their eyes, of spending two wonderful weeks with my lovely, sweet, supportive, eternal companion.

And I have only one regret at the end of this tour: I only get to go on two more! 

MTC Tour Day 13: Thank you, Boston!

We definitely did NOT have enough time in Boston!  Cindy and I took a bus tour around the city this morning.  We saw “Cheers”, the Boston Commons, the old churches, the “Make Room for Ducklings” statues, and the U.S.S. Constitution!  “Old Ironsides” was the highlight of the Boston sightseeing tour for me.  But the ship itself was closed!  We couldn’t go aboard.  However, we got to see it up close in dry dock where the Navy is refurbishing it.

Then the Choir and Orchestra had to hurry over to the Wang Theatre for our rehearsal and sound check.  During the rehearsal, Brother Wilberg said, “There will be a lot of Boston blue-bloods in the audience and they are skeptical.”

So we had to rise to the challenge.

If the cheers and hooting and standing ovations were any indication, I think we succeeded.  I know that the Spirit flowed unrestrained at many moments during the concert, particularly during “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling”.  I know that I was weeping freely.

This last concert was best of all.  Thank you, Boston!

Tomorrow, we fly home.  I’ll have one last post concerning this tour.  I don’t think you will want to miss it.  Stay tuned…

MTC Tour Day 12: Goodbye, New York!

After nine nights on Times Square, we finally headed to Boston.  But first, we had another wonderful sacrament meeting.  After sacrament meeting, I took a small walk on Times Square—most likely the last I will ever take.  I made it a point to go up to three NYPD officers and thank them for watching out for us.

After having spent so much time in New York, I no longer wonder how it is that New Yorkers have such a hard time understanding us in the “fly-over states”.  We know what it’s like to have a garden, a back yard, to be able to just take a walk down our home street without running smack-dab into thousands of people.  We know what’s it’s like to own and drive a car, to be able to park on the side of the street, to be able to say hello to perfect strangers without fear of reprisal or being seen as a “mark”, to see the stars at night, to see grass and trees everywhere, to not have to plant AstroTurf on the rooftop of a skyscraper just to get a little greenery, to buy a soda or a milkshake or an apple without being reminded just how many calories are in it.  Hey, you go into a McDonalds in NYC, and NOTHING costs only a dollar.  How could anybody possibly live on minimum wage in a town like that?

Still, even if we don’t have a ton in common, we are all still children of God.  And there are some really great people in New York.  There are really great people everywhere.

And when we got to Boston, the hotel fed us steak and whole lobsters!