Mozart's Requiem

I love Mozart so much.  And there is no single piece of music I love more than his Requiem.  I grew up watching Amadeus with my family at least once a year--Dad said we could watch it on the last day of school because he knew there was no chance we could be depressed by it on our happiest day.  I did not realize that the notes and lines of Requiem were being woven into the fabric of my soul at that early age, but when I sang the Requiem in college it felt just like coming home.  (Does "fabric of my soul" seem a little much? Sorry, I get really excited.)

Norm Lister, who leads our community choir, said tonight that, at the age of 67, this year was his first opportunity of singing the entire Requiem.  Lucky me!  It was my second opportunity!  And it has been so glorious.  We performed last Saturday in the Cox (where I sang it the first time, fifteen years ago) in conjunction with the Dixie College Choirs and Orchestra.  It was truly a joyous day for me.

But the best part about all of this is that for the past five weeks, I've had Mozart continually running through my head.  You see, I bought the CD in college and listened to it ad infinitam until I fairly had it memorized.  I still can sing long passages from memory, and the solo passages play like heavenly music in my mind.  It has been a joy to be so pleasantly haunted by one of the greatest minds this world has ever known.  

Valentine's Day hike to heart arch.

Valentine Bouquets

TJ's Valentine's flowers for me.  Mom gave me the vase years ago, and it has sat unoccupied in my room all that time.  I'm glad to have such a worthy home for such lovely flowers!

My Valentine's flowers for TJ: bacon roses!

Morning Gratitude

I'm on my knees in the dark of the morning, trying to squeeze in a morning prayer before the boys find me.  I can hear that Isaiah is waking up sad, and needs either a banana or a hug from me.  His cries come closer to the bedroom door, and soon his pitiful wail accompanies his tiny-fisted knocking.  I crawl to the door and meet his eyes.  I can't resist a hug and kiss, but then I am firm:  "Isaiah, I need to pray.  Go get a banana and I'll be in in a minute."  He is reluctant, and here comes Paul in his wake.  Maybe my prayer will have to wait. But Paul puts an arm around his little brother, with and says with tenderness and older-brother wisdom, "Isaiah, come with me and I'll get you a banana.  Mama needs to pray."  Isaiah lets Paul lead him back down the hall toward the kitchen, his arm still draped over his shoulder.  And I kneel again by the bedside and start with gratitude for loving brothers.