How fruitless to be ever thinking
yet never embrace a thought...
to have the power to believe
and believe it's all for naught.
I, too, have reckoned time and truth
(content to wonder if not think)
in metaphors and meaning
and endless patterns of ink.
Perhaps a few may find their way
to the world where others live,
sharing not just thoughts I've gathered
but those I wish to give.
Tom Kapanka
Location: Lake Michigan Shoreline, Midwest, United States
By Grace, I'm a follower of Christ. By day, I'm a recently retired school administrator; by night (and always), I'm a husband and father (and now a grandfather); and by week's end, I sometimes find myself writing or reading in this space. Feel free to join in the dialogue.
In the previous post, I mentioned that my parents enjoyed the great old hymns of the faith. Through many years of singing along side Mom and Dad in church and around our piano at home, we children grew to love the old hymns, too.
The hymns I speak of are not "good" because they are old, they are now old because they were good--because they put Truth to music and help focus the minds of those who sang upon that truth. That is why they were sung for more than a hundred years. I could list the scores of hymns that meet this test--and explain why not all of the old church songs measure up--but my purpose here is simply to say that I'm glad young Christians are once again breathing new life into old hymns. This past week around a campfire, I heard a young worship leader explain the word ebenezer to a group of teens as they sang "Come Thou Fount." The exchange between him and the young people reminded me of Still WatersChapter Seven, which I'm pretty sure the leader had never read. [Good job, Jer.]
I'm equally pleased that in recent years some great new hymns have been written that rise above the 7-11 choruses that peppered the turn of the 21st Century. (By 7-11, I mean those congregational songs that seemed like seven words repeated eleven times. Such songs were fine, I suppose, to season the Praise meal, but they lacked the meat to be a meal themselves.)
The new songs I'm referring to have been called "modern hymns" in that they reflect the substance of the great hymns that stood the test of time through centuries of congregational worship across many post-Reformation Christian denominations.
A few weeks ago, I shared the song "New Soul," that you may have heard first in a Macintosh commercial. That song and its creative music video help us understand that well-written lyrics reach beyond the page (and even beyond the lyre, the ancient musical instrument at the right from which we get the word lyric). Throughout most of the 20th Century, advertisers relied on getting "jingles" in our head to help their advertising dollars work overtime for free.
Jingles not only make lyrics work overtime... they also work over time. Many of them have become unforgettable classics in their own right. Most of them follow the same simple formula: state the name and claim of the product. "Brylcream: a little dab-l-do ya" (name and claim) Or "My dog's better 'cause he eats Ken-L-Ration." (claim and name). [Note: I could easily get side-tracked on this topic. For more see the P.S. at the bottom of this post.]
Back in the 70's, Coke found that advertisers could borrow a song that had nothing to do with a product and if it caught on, if the song made people feel good or appealed to "our better angels," it would enhance the way consumers felt about a product. The song Coke introduced was "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing" (which did add their name and claim at the very end: "Coke: It's the real thing"), but it was the song itself that became a hit for my generation for years--including millions of non-Coke drinkers like me.
As long as there are radios and products to peddle on the air waves, there will be jingles, but in this 21st Century we are seeing more and more use of unfamiliar, inspiring songs draped around a product. Take the one from CVS Pharmacy, for instance. That song was also used in the enchanting film Charlotte's Web. Another great song in a commercial is the haunting question sung by Hem: "Is this the part where you let go?" used in the Liberty Mutual commercial. It shows ordinary people doing the right thing for others.
This song kept playing through my head those days we were in hospice with my mom (after returning early from Thailand). So it's no surprise that it came back to me when I was editing the video and saw the footage of an Akah man dying in his hut (it was a large "family hut" with three related families sharing it). Dr. Mary was holding the man's hand as we prayed because there was nothing else the doctors could do. One week to the day after taking those pictures, I was holding my mom's hand under similar circumstances.
The video project is practically complete. I used the following clip at the end of a longer presentation put on DVD along with the portions you may have watched on POI Youtube.
"Is This the Part Where You Let Go?"
If you watch this montage a second time, you may want to play "I Spy" with the clips. Here's a guide of what to look for.
Clip #1: It did not rain a drop the week I was in Thailand so I had to use a brook in the opening clip. A few days after I returned home, they had a rare downpour in the dry season. Clip #2: Look closely—-there is an old sandal embedded in the hardened clay, leftover from the rainy season. (A foot probably got stuck in the thick mud and the sandal just hardened there as the path dried.) Clip #3: I thought it was interesting that the boys demonstrated that in their culture a vehicle's primary worth is in carrying loads of beams or bamboo. Clip #6: The small children sometimes play "sidewalk soccer" with stones. Clip #7: Look closely at the upper edge of the clip when the boy is running in slomo. You'll see a satellite dish. In the past few years, nearly every village has installed one. Clip #8: The man is wearing a "U.S. Army" shirt. Needless to say, he wasn't a GI, but the hill tribes often get cast-offs from the "irregular" bins of the many Thailand textile companies that supply "name brands" and familiar logos for the rest of the world. Clip #10: Holding this dying man's hand during prayer was all the doctors could do. Little did I know when I took that shot, that I'd be holding my mother's hand under similar circumstance exactly one week later. Clip #11: Akah woman with cataracts. Clip #12: Behind the sad boy hugging the post is an old man smoking opium from a PVC pipe. Clip #14: Girl with soccer ball and baby. The team gave away two new soccer balls to each village. Clip #16: Detail of Akah vest on young girl. These colors and patterns are unique to the Akah tribe and they sell many handmade items like this at the markets. Clip #17: Lady in purple walked all the way up the hill by herself. It took 20 minutes. She had severe arthritis. Clip #18: Booted women coming in from the rice fields for the clinic. Clip #21: Small Boy crying after tooth extraction. He had a hard time. Afterwards, I wanted to give him something. All I had in my pocket was a penny, so I gave it to his father to give to him. They had never seen one and were very grateful. I hope they don't someday misunderstand the gesture when they find out a penny is our least valued coin. Clip #22: I have used this girl in the window three times. I call the video file "Eyes." Clip #23: At the end of the clinic in the very far village (where they were making brooms), these girls brought us plates of fresh fruit. Clip #24: This is the wife of our Akah translator, John. Her name is "Nut," and in that language it has only positive connotations. She and John are a remarkable couple. Clip #25: I call this clip "Number 97" because I have a photo of this Lahu woman proudly holding up her "take a number" ticket. She was thrilled to get the ticket but did not know that 97 meant there was nearly a hundred in front of her. After a few hours, she was sitting against a wall (#97 still in her hand...look closely). Her countenance went from bright-eyed to pensive. I did not notice it was the same lady until weeks later when I began editing. Her face and eyes show the wisdom and weariness that comes from shared life.
P.S. I wanted to add some more examples of classic "name-claim" jingles, but as I googled the topic, I found some great related links that you can just explore for yourself if you share this interest. First was this fun post about jingles by a fellow blogger. Then was this great link to a page of nearly all the famous ad jingles through the years in WAV form for free downloads. (Once you're at that site, use the index to search other categories of jingles.) I also found this "80's" page that provides video clips of some classic ads. If you want to see a funny video clip about how jingles are a part of our culture, watch this "short." (Be sure to watch the surprise ending.) And finally, if you're really into old jingles and ad slogans... test your knowledge here. Now do you see why I put this at the end--it's practically a whole different post, but I just put up the one I wrote for the weekend. =)
[This post is temporarily posted here from a private blog that is a journal I began keeping since Enoch came to live with us. He came from China as a junior to our school. His father is the pastor of a house church in China. The circumstances of his life require that I say little more about it in this public blog.]
*****
I am not a golfer.
Over the course of fifty years, I've played golf seldom enough to keep my
beginner’s luck in tact. It’s been years since I’ve swung a club, so even that statement may
no longer be true, but I used to be able make par on a handful of holes with years between games. This was very frustrating to my friends who golfed regularly, but the truth is:
I’m not a golfer. Neither is
Enoch, but I do want to tell you about last spring when some of his classmates coaxed him to "try out" for our Calvary golf team.
The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) banned golf several decades ago. Then in 1984, they caved to a growing class of foreign businessmen and built the first golf course in China. Two decades later the CCP banned the word "luxury" to deflect charges of elitism. Shortly thereafter, the Party banned all members from joining golf clubs for the same reason. None of these policies affected Enoch or his family, of course, but evenso Enoch had never seen a golf course in his life—never held a club—never touched a dimpled ball—never even played putt-putt. Zip. Zero. Nada. BUT… two of his classmates are golfers, and when they asked him to come “be on the golf team” at school it was a social opportunity he
could not refuse.
Enoch borrowed some clubs from his “brother in law” (or as he puts it: “the husband
of my American sister, Natalie") and began going to golf practice in
late March.
I was not very involved in the process. His being at golf simply
meant that I went home after school and had to go pick him up two or three hours later.
“How
was golf?” I would ask.
“Cold. Very cold,” he would shiver. “The wind hurts my face. But
today was a good day. I found four balls in the woods.”
“What were you doing in the woods?”
“I lost my ball. Twice. But I found four balls.”
“Were two of them the ones you lost?”
“No. Someone else will find those, but I am ahead two balls.”
“Well, that’s one way to keep score.” I smiled.
This went on for a few weeks until one April day over Spring Break.
Michigan never quite knows when to turn the page on winter. It can still be freezing cold in April, and this was a particularly blustery day. Enoch had no gloves. I offered him some
that were in the car but he declined. “I will borrow golf gloves from a friend,”
he said. I winced because golf gloves are very thin. "Use your pockets if your hands get cold," I said to a closing door.
About an hour and a half later, my phone rang unexpectedly.
“Dad,…”[I should explain that some time between
January and April, Enoch began calling Julie and I "Mom and Dad." This was not an easy decision for him. At school, students often call us "Mr. K" and "Mrs. K," but this did not feel right for Enoch, and one day at breakfast, he explained that even though his real mom and dad are in China, it would be much easier to say "Mom and Dad" if that would be okay. This made sense. But quite often when Enoch says the word “dad," he elongates it into a two syllable word that drops a note
mid-way through like a door chime.]
“Da-ad, can you
come get me?”
“Is golf practice over?”
“No just first nine-holes, but I cannot go on.”
I could tell that he was very sad, and it was not just because of the cold. Ten minutes later he plopped down in the passenger
seat of our car. His bare hands were red, but his eyes were, too.
“Here. Put these gloves on. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. There is nothing to talk about. I am no good at
golf. The coach is nice to me, but I know I am just no good. I am holding up
the whole team. Even when they separate the players by how good they are, I
hold up the other bad players.”
“Well…" I searched for something to say. "You gave it try. I thought maybe you’d find a hidden
talent or have some beginners luck.”
“No talent and no luck. Just swing and miss or ball goes
wrong way. I hate golf.”
“Well… don’t be too hard on yourself. You mostly just wanted
to be with friends, right?”
“Golf course is very big. Today we were separate. I didn’t even see my friends except
when I told them I was going home. They said they understand.”
“Well… [It was my third reply in a row that begin with “well…”
but I’m not sure he knew this pattern was a signal of deep consolation.] I’m proud of you for trying. You’ll feel
better when you warm up. We’re almost home. You don’t have to go to practice
anymore.”
There is a non-profit called "passiton.com" that puts inspirational billboards up all across the country. You've probably seen them. This one of John Wayne is near our home. It's a quote from the movie True Grit. I've passed this sign with Enoch many times. We did not pass it on the way back from the golf course, but it did come to mind when we pulled in the driveway and Enoch broke his silence..
“Are you mad at me for quitting?”
“No." I wondered out loud. "Do I look mad? Have I said anything that makes you think I am mad?"
[Time for a confession: Have my own children ever seen me mad? You bet. Has my wife ever seen me mad? Of course? Bless her ever-loving heart.... But you all know how it is. Getting mad with loved ones requires testing an incredibly strong "tie that binds." Sad but true is the old song "You Always Hurt the One[s] You Love," and though I do love Enoch, that bond has not yet tested the rope, and to be honest, Enoch is a thoughtful young man who is somewhere in this same cautious spectrum with us. I share this merely to say .... Enoch has never seen me upset, and if he ever does, I hope he will smile and says, "Does this mean I'm family?"]
I was not even disappointed about him quitting golf. I felt bad that he kept going for so long. These thoughts were running through my head as he asked again:
"So you are not mad that I failed?"
"Not at all. Enoch. You didn't fail. Until a few weeks ago, you'd never swung a club. I just thought it might be worth a try to see if you like it. In this case, giving something a try gives you the right not to continue, but that is not failing. You succeeded at trying. That’s all anyone can ask of you. There are sometimes in life when you cannot quit trying because... well... it's important to keep going, but... I would never make you keep chasing golf balls in the cold if it's not something you enjoy."
"So why do I feel bad?"
"Well... I suppose you're disappointed, but that only means you really tried, right? There are lots of things I have tried and failed at, but do you know what is really sad? There are some things I think I might be good at, but I have not tried them."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I'm afraid of the difference between what I think I'm good at and what others think is good. Does that make sense?"
He nodded. I realized that I was talking to myself out loud as much as I was talking to Enoch. I suppose that is the nature of advice whenever age talks to youth.
We stepped into the warm house. The rest of the day and evening was quiet. I was in a recliner watching the news and Julie was upstairs
reading. I assumed Enoch was in his room, but he was not.
Our house is a tri-level. It has a lower-lever family room
where we spend most of our evenings and a living room on the main floor which
is more formal. In in is our family
piano; a very old family pump organ; and harmonicas and stringed-instruments of
various sizes. Despite these many instruments, it is a
room that has been largely silent since our last daughter was married (and now has
a house and piano of her own) It is a great room to read in or to take a nap (on
the seldom-used couch), but in the four months that led up to that quiet April
night, Enoch had never sat at our piano, and I had no
reason to think he ever would.
Then in the distance I heard Beethoven and wondered who was in the house.
Enoch noticed me recording him with my phone, but it did not seem to bother him at all.
I recalled a previous conversation many weeks before when Enoch told me that his mother made him take piano lessons as a child, but he did not like and quit. The level of playing I was watching reflected a much longer story.
When he was done, I put down my phone and said, "Okay, Enoch. Tell me more about those lessons you took as a child. You are very good."
"No. I am only so-so. I have not played a piano in many years."
"You've walked past this piano for four months and never been tempted to play?"
"No. I did not want to. It is bad memories for me."
"How so?"
"My mother knew a very famous concert pianist in our city. This friend knew we were poor and told her that she would teach me lessons but not charge. She did this for free. And so every week for seven years, I had to go to that lady's house [apartment] for piano, but I did not like it at all."
"So you were seven when you started?"
"Yes. Elementary school at first, but as I got older, I had long days at school...homework... church...and then piano. My mother made me practice many hours each week--not on a piano because we do not have a piano... on one of those keyboard things. It plugged in.”
"Most kids do not like it until they get past the notes on the page and the song is inside them. Our first two daughters took piano, but it never really took them. Natalie [our youngest] learned to love it."
"I never felt good enough. I make mistakes, and I knew I would never be a concert pianist."
"Very few people ever get that good, but they still play piano. You are good. Why did you quit?
"My mother made me play until the Government put my father prison. Things got hard then. It just happened. She let me quit piano."
"Has it been that long since you played?" He nodded yes. "I think it would make your parents very happy to know that you have not forgotten how."
"I made many mistakes, but it did feel good to know I could still read the music."
"Our daughter Natalie used to spend many evenings here. We did not make her do it. She enjoyed it. I would lie on the couch and listen to her. I miss that. It is very good to hear it again, so please make yourself at home and play whenever you want for as long as you want."
He smiled, and began playing again.
To this day, neither of us has talked about why it was on that particular day after feeling like he had failed at golf that he suddenly went down to the "parlor," turned on the piano light, adjusted the bench, slid back the wooden lid, thumbed through the Schirmer's collection, and began playing notes that had not coursed through his fingers for over three years.
On that night, mistakes did not matter to him. The notes on the page went from eyes to brain to memory and to a song that brought him solace in the spring. It does not happen every evening or even every week. Playing piano is not something he HAS TO DO, but like the shepherd David at his lyre, it is something that soothes his restless mind when his thoughts are far away.
