Anniversaries

On May 25, my dad had been gone for five years. Five years. Seems like yesterday. Seems like ages ago. I tried to write something. Couldn't get the words right. It still sits in my blog queue, with Draft staring at me in blue letters.

This past Sunday was our wedding anniversary. Twenty-nine years we've been married. Seems like yesterday. Seems like ages ago. Some of my childhood memories are still so fresh, that it seems impossible that I've been married longer than I was single.

Here is one of the prayers spoken at our wedding, back when we weren't even Christians yet. It's only one sentence, but there's a lot of meat in that sentence.

O God, who hast so consecrated the state of Matrimony that in it is represented the spiritual marriage and unity betwixt Christ and His Church; Look mercifully upon these thy servants, that they may love, honour, and cherish each other, and so live together in faithfulness and patience, in wisdom and true godliness, that their home may be a haven of blessing and of peace; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit ever, one God, world without end. Amen.

The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony
Book of Common Prayer

Unexpected Surprises

My dad would have been 81 today. He's been gone from this world now for nearly five years. One of my brothers remarked just yesterday that it seems far longer. It feels that way for me, too.

I still have mostly good memories and for that I am thankful. Time has a way of softening the rough edges of the bad memories. One of my good memories involves Dad and I shopping at a bookstore for a birthday present for my older brother. Dad bought me a paperback copy of Jane Eyre (for 95 cents!). That was something that never happened in our family; receiving a gift on the day of another siblings' birthday. It was so amazing, in fact, that I wrote on the title page, below my name: Oct. 16, 1967. I was 12, and the book was too hard for me just yet, but a little over a year later, I read the book and fell in love with it. It was bittersweet reading, however. Mom and Dad had just separated a few weeks before.

Dad's Christmas cactus just bloomed yesterday. A few years ago it bloomed on the anniversary of his passing. I don't think plants understand calendars or anniversaries of any kind. But God sure does.

(I took a photo of the cactus, but don't know how to get it onto the computer. I'll try to get it added to this post soon. And just a little aside. Interestingly, I found out later that Jane Eyre was published on October 16, 1847.)

The Men in My Life

On this Father's Day, I have been thinking of the men in my life.

One great grandfather taught me left from right.

Another great grandfather bought his bride-to-be a beautiful watch for Christmas in 1901, which I now have and cherish.

My maternal grandfather opened up the world of flowers to me.

My paternal grandfather taught me that bigger is not always better when it comes to gifts.

My dad taught me to appreciate music, art, history, conversation, and the Western sky.

My husband made me his bride twenty-eight years ago, and now travels the road of parenting with me.

Our son daily shows me true examples of patience and forgiveness.

My heavenly Father perfectly loves imperfect me, and patiently guides my stumblings and gropings.

I would not be me without the men in my life. Happy Father's Day to you all!

(note: The old men in the photo are not related to me in any way and are not to be confused with the men mentioned in my post!)

Four Years

It's four years now since my dad passed away.

Dad wasn't perfect. There were hurts in our family while I was growing up, as a result of some of Dad's actions. Some of those wounds were healed before he died, and for that I am most grateful.

He never gave any indication that he was a believer, so that part is difficult. I never prayed so hard for him as I did when he lay in the hospital a half a country away from me in his last days. I have a calm about it now. I wouldn't go so far as to say a peace, but I don't freak out about it. I pray that God saved my dad from the jaws of eternal punishment at the last minute. Which is kind of funny now that I think about it, because my dad was always late for everything. Maybe, by God's grace, he barely squeaked into heaven.

You know, in a way I guess we ALL actually barely squeak into heaven. Based upon our own merit, none of us would be there. But then, for some unknown reason, God chooses us. Imperfect, sinful us. Plucked from the pit and raised up. A most amazing gift.

I Vow to Thee, My Country

British composer, Gustav Holst (1874-1934), has been on my mind this past week. He is probably best known for his orchestral composition, The Planets. Holst was one of my dad's favorite composers, due to his two Suites for band. I was privileged to play one of those this past Friday. The writing is just wonderful and it was a nice thing to do to commemorate my dad's birthday week.

I found this hymn, put to a melody from The Planets. It seemed appropriate for my past week of thinking of my dad and Holst. And, too, the words are very appropriate for James. He is the young man from Iowa who was killed in Afghanistan in 2004. His community had a motorcycle ride today to commemorate his life. They followed it with a visit to the cemetery and a chili supper. The event raises money for a scholarship fund in James's name. The words of this hymn seem appropriate for this event, as well.

(This hymn was also a favorite of Princess Diana's. It was sung at both her wedding and her funeral.)

May God continue to comfort James's family in the loss of their son, brother, uncle.


I Vow to Thee, My Country


I vow to thee, my country—all earthly things above—
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;
The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago—
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;
We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;
Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;
And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,
And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.

Comfort

"All that the Father gives Me will come to Me, and the one who comes to Me I will by no means cast out."
John 6:37 NKJV

I read this verse this morning and found it to be a comfort for the entire day. When Dad was in ICU in his last days, I prayed for him to come to God as a child. One of the gifts God has given me is a lack of despair about Dad's soul. I pray that my dad was one of those whom the Father gave to Jesus.

Leader of the Band

Lee Cadle McMillen
April 14, 1928 - May 25, 2004

This song from Dan Fogelberg (1951-2007) is in memory of my dad, who would have been 80 years old today. Dad had many of his finest moments upon a podium.

Leader of the Band

The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through
My instrument
And his song is in my soul --
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy
To the leader of the band
I am the living legacy
To the leader of the band.


Dear Dad,
I pray that you are in heaven, leading wonderful musicians, praising our Lord.

The Harvard Coasters

This isn't at all what I planned to blog about today. I have a couple of Bible verses I wanted to write about, but...you see, I ran across these coasters...

My dad will have been gone now for four years, come May. It's hard to believe. I still have an unsettled feeling every weekend when I don't make my weekly phone call to him, halfway across the country.

In his last years, my dad had a very nice lady friend. She boxed up a few things of his and sent them out to me over a year ago. I just couldn't bring myself to dig too deeply in the box so I didn't really know what it contained. Without planning to, I looked in the box this evening. When I unwrapped his Cleveland Browns mug I almost cried. It brought back so many memories of my brothers and I watching his beloved Browns with him when I was a child. I'm not quite ready to take it out of the box yet, but it's nice knowing it's there.

Then I ran across the Harvard coasters, and another flood of memories came back. I had totally forgotten about them. A gift from my Dad's brother, a Harvard Law School grad, they are made of copper and sport the Harvard crest. Suddenly I could picture our coffee table, and my dad sitting on the couch listening to jazz and studying a score for his next band concert. Back when life was simpler.

It makes me wonder what seemingly insignificant things will trigger good memories for my own children some 40 years hence. Although we Americans seem to have so much more stuff compared to when I was growning up, I pray that my children have good memories of a home filled with love of the Lord and love of each other. I hope they run across their own Harvard coasters and bask in good memories, too.

Dad

Today is the third anniversary of my dad's passing. Like many people, I have some regrets that aspects of our relationship will never be realized. Yet, God has been gracious to give me good memories. I have true thankfulness for the good things I inherited from Dad:

-music abilities
-love for teaching & learning
-love for history
-love for the prairie

I love you, Dad, and I miss you!

Love,
Your Little Bird

Sir Edward Elgar, My Dad, and Me

Last Saturday evening I got to perform Edward Elgar's symphonic work, Enigma Variations, for only the second time in my life. It's a lovely piece introduced by a short theme, followed by 14 musical variations, all based upon family members or close friends of Elgar's. Each variation, save one, has initials or a name to identify its human inspiration. My favorite variation has to be the one entitled "Nimrod," and Saturday I played it with tears trickling down my face.

When I was in 6th grade, my elementary school music teacher had me start working on the slow movement of Mozart's Third Horn Concerto. My father, also a music teacher, believed that I couldn't properly play such a piece because I was too young to understand its deep meaning, and requested that I not play it yet.

I don't know what my dad thought about me playing the Elgar piece when I was only fifteen, but I fell in love with it then, and I love it still. Perhaps I was too young to give the very emotional "Nimrod" variation its full due. But I think back to what I had experienced in my life at that time. Even at the tender age of fifteen, I had experienced several significant events of both sadness and joy. Thirty-six years later, I have certainly lived many more joys and disappointments, enabling me to play the variation with more pathos, but the music is so beautiful and universal, I think it can be appreciated by people of all ages.

Why was I crying? I cried because the last time I played the piece, my dad sat in on both the rehearsals and the final performance. This time, my dad is gone and I don't know where he's spending eternity. I cried because I didn't get to call him and tell him how good the concert was. I cried because this time I played the Elgar, my daughter was in the concert hall, and I want so very much to be a good mother to her and our son. I cried because the piece was so beautiful. The fact that good composers can dream up such beauty and commit it to paper for others to play for years after they are gone is truly a miracle.

Thank you, Lord, for imperfect parents, for great composers, and for ears and hearts to experience beautiful music.

The Bloom

My best friend from high school, Gwyn, drove out here last week to bring some of my dad's furniture that she had been storing at her house for me. She also brought my dad's Christmas cactus.

Now, when I was growing up, Dad never exhibited a green thumb. In fact, because of his asthma and hay fever, he didn't even mow the lawn. I have a picture of me trying valiantly to use our push lawnmower when I was five, but it was actually one of my brothers who mowed the lawn regularly.

When Dad's mother died in 1977, he inherited, among other things, a very bedraggled Christmas cactus. He took it upon himself to nurse it back to health, perhaps as a metaphor for his own life that was, at that time, struggling on many fronts. With fierce determination, Dad resurrected that cactus into a huge, healthy, beautiful plant which he grew to love. I think he even named it.

When my friend brought it into our house last week, after dutifully caring for it these past two years, I was delighted to see a lone pinkish-reddish bud on its slender arms. The bud opened a few days after my friend left to return home, and was still open yesterday, the anniversary of my dad's last few hours on this earth. Then, this morning when I awoke, the flower had fallen from the plant and lay silently in the soil.


Shed no tear--O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more--O weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
John Keats

Memories and Gratitude

It has been two years, almost to the minute, since my Dad's passing. It was May 24th here in the Mountain Time Zone, but May 25th where he lived in the Eastern Time Zone.

In some respects it seems like he's been gone such a long time. Yet, my last phone conversation with him seems like it was just last week. That was the last time he ever talked on the telephone. He was being prepared for emergency surgery, and he had to hang up so he could be wheeled to the operating room.

Catherine Marshall wrote in her book, A Man Called Peter, about the comfort of the last words she spoke to her husband. She had said to him, "Darling, I'll see you in the morning." She wrote about the thoughts she had a few months later, "And as I stood looking out toward that far horizon, I knew that those words would go singing in my heart down all the years..."

My last words to my dad were, "I love you, Dad. I'll talk to you when you're done." The words have gone "singing in my heart" these past two years. I sometimes have despair about my dad's salvation, but I also have hope that I will indeed talk to him again. And for him, it'll seem but a moment until we speak again.

Three things I am grateful I received from my dad:
1. His love of music
2. His love of the prairie
3. His love of history

(Here's another recent post about him.)

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

Today would have been your 78th birthday. I really miss you. I miss calling you every weekend. I miss talking about teaching and music. I miss telling you how spring is going in Colorado. I wish you could have heard me play the Leningrad. I actually got to do it! Can you believe it?

Did you see how I put your clarinet on top of one of the bookcases in the dining room next to the old horn? I like seeing it every day. I even kept your reed on the mouthpiece. And sometimes at night, I listen to Stan Getz and Paul Desmond to remind me of you.

You know, Dad, today is Good Friday. When you were lying in that hospital bed at the end, did you think about Jesus? Did you ever admit that He is who He said He was? I prayed so hard that you did. I cried so hard for you.

I don't know if you remember, but there was one thief crucified on either side of Jesus. One of the thieves, as he hung on a cross next to Jesus, believed in Jesus at the very end of his life. I really pray that you did, too.

I love you, Dad. I miss you.


Love,
Your Little Bird

Leningrad Revisited

Nearly 42 years ago I sat with my father in the Colorado high school band room where he was the band director. My father and I, looking for a musical instrument for me to learn. I tried several instruments until I finally settled on the French Horn as "the one" I was to pursue. One month later we moved to another town and I began playing the French Horn. Shortly thereafter I first heard Shostakovich's Leningrad Symphony in our living room, listening to the record with my dad many times. He loved this symphony, and I grew to love it with him. Our family moved to West Virginia where I attended junior and senior high school, but I came back out to Colorado to attend college, where I played French Horn in the Greeley Philharmonic for two years and met the man whom I would later marry.

One week ago this evening, I got to perform the one symphony I most remember listening to with my dad, in the town where I had learned to play the horn. This is amazing considering I lived in nine different houses in three states before I left home for college. I had the wonderful privilege to perform this symphony with the Greeley Philharmonic Orchestra under the direction of Dr. Howard Skinner, under whose baton I sat in my college days. My husband of 25 years was in the horn section with me.

We played the "invasion theme" of the first movement, which I remembered so distinctly from my childhood. I was playing as loudly as I could, along with all of the orchestra, emulating the cacophony of the invading German army into Russia in 1941. But it was the closing strains of the fourth movement, the movement inspired by the hope that the Allies would eventually win the war, that brought tears to my eyes.

Dad died almost two years ago. But as I played those closing bars, the whole orchestra playing a joyous, victorious fortissimo, I gave it my all for my dad. My dad, who patiently sat in a band room while I tried out different instruments those many summers ago. I'm sure he would have found a way to be in the audience had he been alive. He would have been so proud. His "Little Bird" playing the very symphony we loved. I gave it my all and played for him.

"There's a Wideness in God's Mercy"

God's mercy is indeed wide! That He would search me out, when I wasn't looking for Him, and draw me to Himself....that is mercy both wide and deep.

I share these words in memory of my father, Lee Cadle McMillen (April 14, 1928-May 25, 2004).


There's a Wideness in God's Mercy
by Frederick William Faber (1814-1863)

There's a wideness in God's mercy
like the wideness of the sea;
there's a kindness in God's justice,
which is more than liberty.
There is welcome for the sinner,
and more graces for the good;
there is mercy with the Savior;
there is healing in his blood.
There is no place where earth's sorrows
are more felt than up in heaven;
there is no place where earth's failings
have such kindly judgment given.
There is plentiful redemption
in the blood that has been shed;
there is joy for all the members
in the sorrows of the Head.

For the love of God is broader
than the measure of the mind;
and the heart of the Eternal
is most wonderfully kind.
If our love were but more faithful,
we should trust God's every word;
and our life would be thanksgiving
for the goodness of the Lord.


This site has a recording of a non-traditional melody using the words of this hymn.