December 1999. Antofagasta Chile. Las Rocas, on the Pacific coast. The western edge of the deadly dry Atacama desert.
I remember it so vividly. (And I'm a bit nostalgic today as it's the 21st anniversary of the day I entered the MTC.)
Summer in the southern hemisphere was just heating up.
And I was a total mess.
I'd never felt so alone. Frustrated. Ignorant. Foolish.
Who was I to invade people's private lives? How could I have any hope of helping them gain a testimony of the Restored Church?
And even if someone showed interest, I couldn't get my tongue around the language. I couldn't express anything more coherent than a Chilean Kindergartener's sputterings. Who was I kidding?
And then my first letter from home arrived. From my Dad.
Most of it was ordinary "what's going on at home" stuff.
But on the backside, there was one short paragraph that changed everything.
I wish I still had it. Maybe it's buried in my mission box somewhere?
One line still stands out.
"Never forget that you're on the Lord's errand and that He will be with you when times get tough."
Sitting on the lower bunk as Elder Franco slept...
Looking through my open window out across the Pacific...
It came back.
Riding on the wings of a song.
A song you've probably never heard.
It's a song my Dad composed when I was 13 or 14 years old.
A song he composed for our Stake Youth Choir, which he conducted.
It was called, "I Believe."
What an unforgettable thing for a 13 or 14-year-old to sing my father's testimony. To learn it by heart. To have it woven into the fibers of my own budding testimony.
A song-testimony that expressed belief in "the Father and Jesus, His Son."
And here it came blowing in from the morning sea-salty air.
That letter, the memory of my Dad's song-testimony, and the spine-straightening strength it brought me stayed with me.
Mostly because I folded up his letter and slipped it into the little white bible I wore in my breast pocket. And there it stayed for the rest of my mission.
Any time I struggled, I pulled it out. And it all came back in a heartbeat.
And you know what's funny...
My Dad doesn't have any degrees in music.
Yet, he's a fine, mostly self-taught musician. An excellent conductor. And more recently, the founder of the amazing Timpanogos Symphony Orchestra here in Utah Valley. He's been my biggest fan and most stalwart supporter through all my musical endeavors.
But counterpoint, polyphony, intricate harmonic practices...
Those weren't part of his musical vocabulary as a well-meaning composer writing for the Stake Youth Choir.
But it didn't matter. Not at all. Because he found a way to embed his testimony into the music. I'm sure he drew on his "practical theory" knowledge as a fine pianist.
So, yes, there was some harmony knowledge.
But there was something equally, possibly even MORE important than theory knowledge, which he had in droves.
It's the same kind of thing his mom had. The special grandma I mentioned yesterday in Part 1 of this little story. (You can read it here if you missed it yesterday.)
And whether you have a degree in music or not, if you don't have this particular thing in your favor, your far less likely to create the kind of song my Dad did.
The kind that could, with just a whiff of my memory, completely heal my fragile, greeny missionary heart.
It's why when thye asked me to sing at my Grandmother's funeral, I struggled so much to get the words out.
Words that meant SO MUCH to hear. Because she'd practiced this kind of behavior so much, for so long.
And it's exactly the kind of thing I'm going to be doing with you, if you decide you want to join me inside the Latter-Day Musivangelist Monthly Program.
For sure, we'll spend time each month studying theory and harmony. Because you'll need some.
But you'll need more of this other element. The piece my Dad and his Mom had in such quantities.
I promised I'd tell you more about that song I sang at her funeral, but this email got away from me again. I'll have to finish that part tomorrow.
But let me make sure the message it getting through.
Nobody could have had the impact on me my own family members did. And what a special way it occurred. With a song. Something my memory could recall in a literal split-second when I needed it most.
This song-testimony legacy is for real.
It saved my bacon so many times when I needed it most.
Ok, tomorrow, I promise I'll finish the story of the song I sang at my Grandmother's funeral.
And I also show you the effects of discovering what my Dad and Grandmother had in such rich supply. It did more for me than the 9 years of music classes throughout 4 advanced degrees. No exaggeration.
Hasta mañana,
Doug