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The
Mountaintop Wedding |
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It was obviously going to be one of those days. I was closing in on
the end of a very difficult rehearsal. The students and I were very
agitated. They weren’t working at all and I was entirely frustrated
with them. I don’t recall how I closed the rehearsal, but I’m
sure the words I chose were not words that would lift their spirits
but rather advance my selfish need to punish them for their lack of
cooperation.
----- The moment I released the students,
a very shy and reserved freshman girl made a path straight toward
me. She looked me right in the eye and said, “I hate you!”
I was taken aback and frightened by the passion and sincerity in her
voice. Though entirely shocked, I was somehow able to collect myself
and found calm. I looked her right in the eye and said, “Well
that’s a shame, because I really LIKE you.” She didn’t
react, but rather stormed away, her anger unchanged.
----- Months later, we had the occasion
to speak in private. She asked if I remembered the time she told me
that she hated me. How could I forget? She went on to admit quite
openly and honestly that it was herself, not me, that she hated. The
moment got heavy and she began to tell me of her fears, insecurities,
pressures….
----- I became aware that she had been
opening up to a colleague of mine with more specifics. This was a
very confused and frightened young lady. I hurt for her, but I was
thankful that my friend was there and that she had him to lean on.
Their relationship might well have saved her life.
----- Throughout the next few years I
saw her open up a bit more. She would occasionally share how she felt,
usually along the lines of being afraid of rejection. She joked about
it often, but the laughter was never sufficient to mask the insecurity
that ate at her soul. Often I’d admonish her for not speaking
with her parents about it. She’d answer, “I can’t
tell them anything.” “I can’t even talk to them
about the weather.” “They won’t listen.” This
hurt me. I knew her parents well and this reluctance to relate with
them further demonstrated her insecurity. I knew that her inability
to talk to them had nothing to do with their love for her. Again I
saw very clearly that this was a confused soul.
----- Each time a competitive event came
around she’d work very hard to prepare the music. The day of
performance would come, and the fear of rejection would whittle her
away into a non-functioning pile of splinters. Each experience seemed
to become more painful than the last. So my dilemma was clear, how
should I approach this situation? The usually noble “don’t
give up” attitude seemed anything but noble. But to tell her
to walk away was to ask her to admit defeat. So we stormed ahead into
unsuccessful performance after unsuccessful performance, each becoming
increasingly more painful. Still I tried my best to encourage her
and show her where she had improved and how she had found some success
through the experience. Mere words never seemed to help. They never
seemed to make a difference at all. But I was always amazed by her
tenacity and resilience. I didn’t see how she could keep coming
back for more punishment. I kept waiting for her to quit, vowing not
to pressure her otherwise. One of the most perplexing moments occurred
when she sold her horse and bought a shiny new trumpet. Why had she
chosen to trade her passion for her pain?
----- In the spring of her junior year,
she prepared once again for solo competition. The day before the contest
I listened to her play with her accompanist. I was excited to hear
the apparent transformation. She played with beauty and clarity, indeed
with confidence. She was well prepared, as always; but this time something
seemed different. I thought she had broken through. But then one small
mistake brought all the past pain crashing down around her. She threw
down the trumpet she had paid her passion for and stormed out of the
room.
----- She came back into the room later,
eyes red with tears and told me she was not going to perform the solo
she had worked so hard to prepare. In all sincerity, I must admit
that in that moment I gave up on her. I decided that her insecurity
was too severe for my untrained counsel. I vowed not to allow her
another failure and gave in easily to her request not to compete.
----- The next morning she arrived in
time to catch the bus. Her smile was obvious and her step was full
of life as she approached my office. “I’m going to play
my solo!”
----- I didn’t know how to respond
exactly. Looking back, I am surprised at my response. After expressing
my joy in her decision I asked, “What happened to change your
mind.” I was even more surprised at her answer.
----- “I got home and decided to
play it for my parents and it went real well.”
I was beaming inside. I thought she couldn’t even talk to her
parents, never mind make herself vulnerable with her worst fears.
“Then I decided to go down the street and play it for some friends.
And it went well there also. They really liked it.” Apparently
she made several trips in her neighborhood, her own little recital
tour.
----- We arrived at the contest and she
performed a nearly flawless rendition of the solo, receiving the highest
rating and an invitation to the state contest. She was on cloud nine
and I secretly let out a huge sigh of relief. By the time we got to
the state meet a few months later, her nerves seemed as if they were
a thing of the past. This was easily the most profound instance of
conquering “stage fright” I had ever seen.
----- The following school year, her
senior year, I selected a marching band “closer” that
featured a rousing trumpet solo. In all honesty, I did so with the
understanding that we had a couple of “soloists” who could
pull off the task admirably in front of hundreds if not thousands
of football and/or marching contest fans. I never really considered
the possibility that she would “win” the solo. Playing
a classical solo for a few friends or a judge in a private room was
one thing. This was Texas! Filling up a crowded football stadium with
sound on a breezy Friday night was quite another. But each round of
auditions for the solo had her advance to the next level, and each
time she performed the solo, it was noticeably better than her rivals.
The job was hers.
----- The band went on to compete at
contests with success, and it appeared to me that my timid and insecure
trumpet player had somehow taken on the role of “spark plug”
for the band. They seemed to feed off her energy through each performance
and rehearsal. Following the final triumphant contest we decided to
perform the show one final time at the football game, our “encore
performance.” The opening three numbers went well and were well
received by the crowd, larger than normal as the team was playing
a bitter rival in a game with playoff implications. For years I had
witnessed this same crowd, in love with its football, indifferent
to its band. But tonight was different. As we approached the closer
and my trumpet soloist made her way to the front I must admit that
I was terrified. This would be her greatest test. Could it all be
undone right here?
----- She came to the front, not in the
usual manner, but with a swagger. She took her hat off and placed
it on the ground beside her. As she made a motion to the drum major
that seemed to say, “Fire it up big guy!” I was in disbelief.
The solo started and she was on fire, moving around, gyrating, and
taunting the crowd to get involved. At one point she even took one
had off the trumpet and pointed at them. And the solo was glorious;
far and away the best I’d ever heard her. As it reached its
conclusion, our formerly indifferent audience leapt to its feet and
cheered as if we’d scored the winning touchdown. I couldn’t
hear any of the full band shout chorus that echoed the solo. I burst
into tears. She had quite literally captivated an entire town. She
picked up her hat and swept it across her body in one of the biggest
bows I have ever witnessed. She repeated this gesture several times
as the crowd roared with joy.
----- The story could end here and be
a triumph, but for my indulgence I must continue. She went on to college
after high school, playing in bands everywhere she attended. I believe
she enjoyed herself most when she played her instrument. We often
played alongside each other at the church we attended as well. At
one point, during the summer, she and I were invited to play at one
of her classmate’s weddings. We hadn’t seen each other
in several years. It was a fun reunion.
---- Several years later I was playing
at another wedding. Following the service, her mother came toward
me all excited and told me she was getting married in exactly one
year. “She wants you to play at her wedding. Trouble is, it’s
in Colorado.”
----- In my excitement I didn’t
really think before speaking. “Wow! That would be great. Maybe
I can make a family vacation out of it.” Her mother’s
face lit up, and in that moment I knew I had messed up. I didn’t
really think at the time I could make it happen, why did I get her
hopes up?
----- A few months before the wedding
I had not heard anything at all. Part of me was disappointed, the
other elated that I would not have to find a way out of the situation.
I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to let them down. Then I
received the call from her mother. I told her that I would maybe be
able to come to the wedding myself if they helped me get there, but
the family thing was probably out of the question. We had planned
a trip to Arkansas and just couldn’t afford another. As we began
making plans for them to fly me there for the wedding it just didn’t
feel right to me. I guess that feeling was contagious, because my
family willingly and joyfully, in fact with great anticipation, volunteered
to forego the long planned trip to Arkansas and accompany me to the
wedding.
----- What followed was one of the most
delightful weekends I have ever spent. I was warned that the wedding
was not going to be traditional by any stretch. It would be held outdoors,
atop a mountain overlooking Crested Butte, the place the couple had
met. And one other matter; the bride and groom would be on horseback.
When she had traded her horse for her trumpet all those years before,
she had not traded her passion, and sometimes we do get to have our
cake and eat it too.
----- I didn’t realize how close
I had come to failure of the highest order until someone called me
over to join in a conversation with the maid of honor at the rehearsal
dinner. “You’re going to want to hear this.”
----- It seems as though the dorm girls
in college had a little game they loved to play when they took road
trips. They would take turns driving. The driver would list all the
things they wanted at their dream wedding. It was the job of the person
riding “shotgun” to take dictation, forming an ever-changing
wish list, a verbal hope chest of dreams. But it seems as though the
fun would stop when my trumpet soloist took the steering wheel. “She
wouldn’t play. All she would say is, ‘I want my high school
band director to play trumpet at my wedding. The rest doesn’t
matter’.” At hearing that story I had to hold back tears.
How close I had come to choosing my own comfort zone, relaxing on
a lazy hot summer day while miles away my trumpet soloist’s
wedding took place without me.
----- So the story continues. She and
her husband live in Colorado, on a ranch, surrounded by horses. He
works with the horses. She works in town. She develops programs for
troubled youths so that they may find their passion, their voice,
their crowded stadium on a breezy Friday night.
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