Article November 6, 2000 Issue

GLIMMERS OF WHOLENESS

Clare G. Turner

I was one of over 200 singers gathered at a week-long summer choral festival to rehearse and perform Felix Mendelssohn's oratorio St. Paul. I didn't know much about the director before we arrived, other than that he was from a part of the United States that I associated more with record-breaking cold temperatures than musical excellence. He was small and looked unassuming. I was first struck by his warmth and friendliness, but I wondered what he could accomplish. Preparing a major choral piece in one week with a huge group of amateur singers who have never worked together is no small feat.

There were surely times of vigorous drilling, and we knew he had high expectations. But he started each rehearsal with a humorous story or anecdote. Once he taught us a children's camp song. Then there was the tongue-twisting poem. These diversions always made me laugh, but each time I felt a twinge of concern that we were losing valuable and scarce rehearsal time. I also wondered if he'd be quite so jolly when the crunch came later in the week and we really had to pull this piece together. I tried to reassure myself, "If the concert bombs, at least we will have had fun."

Later, he told us about the promise he'd made to his three grown children several years earlier: to write each of them a postcard every week as a way of staying connected in a busy world. I started to realize something of what he was about. Maybe all the fun little stories were an important part of something bigger. Perhaps they were glimmers of wholeness, signs of a life in balance. Balance doesn't always mean so much of this and so much of that. It comes from an inner core that's just right, and radiates through a life well lived.

Send a comment to the editors

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.

Submit

GLIMMERS OF WHOLENESS

We'd love to hear from you!

Sign up for unlimited access