On a polyglot, a piano tuner, outdoor education, and a sleep study (vol. xxx, no. 1)

[Note about the cover image above: That’s Grace conducting the January 16th forum at Southern Virginia University — not discussed in the letter, but go Grace!]

Dear Family,

The concluding speaker at church earlier this month began her remarks by reflecting briefly on some of the interesting places in the world where she had attended sacrament meeting. I winced, gritted my teeth, and took a long, hard look at the clock, thinking that I was about to have to sit through one of those talks. (You know what I mean.)

I could not have been more wrong.

After mentioning how much she appreciated the warmth she had felt from Latter-day Saint congregations in Bangkok and Jerusalem in particular, she ultimately concluded that she’d never attended any ward in the world as interesting or diverse as the one she was in now — our ward. (I don’t remember the precise adjectives she used, but they were all favorable.)

She then proceeded to wish a happy new year to everyone in attendance in their native language. That may not sound like such an incredible feat where you go to church. But here? Well, let me tell you.

Our congregation is not large. It’s been several years since I was last in a position to know (or care about) any of our statistics, and, the D.C. area being what it is, people move in and out all the time. But judging from my perch on the organ bench, I’d guess that we get somewhere between 100 and 150 people in the pews on any given Sunday.

Making sure each of these hundred-and-some-odd people heard the greeting in their native tongue meant having to learn how to do it in at least 13 different languages.

Thirteen languages! After the meeting, I had to ask her the precise number because I’d lost count. She told me she probably still hadn’t gotten everybody.

We do not use call-and-response in our Sunday worship. (I think it would be kind of fun if we did, and I can’t think of any doctrinal reason why we don’t — it just isn’t part of our tradition.) People don’t even say “amen” very often — and virtually never in the middle of a sermon. The only time anyone in the congregation ever says “amen” is after a speaker or prayer-giver says “amen” to indicate they are done talking. And even then, most people barely mumble it (if they say it at all). We don’t applaud or otherwise express appreciation for musical offerings. We are, as religious assemblies go, a rather passive bunch. Whatever the speaker (or musician, or choir or whoever) has to offer, we just sit there politely and endure it.

But this time was different. Whenever the speaker said “happy new year” from the pulpit in a new language, the native speaker (or speakers) of that language repeated the greeting back to her from the pews. (Maybe not every time, but a lot of the time.)

It actually made me cry a little. (Which isn’t saying a lot — pretty much everything makes me cry nowadays.)

I think it made me cry because — and I can’t believe, in 2026, that this does not go without saying — this is America. It’s one of the best things about America (my tears were of happiness). But it saddens me to see it under attack. It did not surprise me at all to learn that Sophie and Luke had marched in Salt Lake City’s anti-ICE protest on Sunday. I mean, of course they did. They both grew up in Montgomery County, Maryland — home to three of the five most culturally diverse places in the U.S. And I’m pretty sure they would both tell you that they actually liked it. (But they write their own letter — they can tell you for themselves what they think.)

Anyway, I honestly don’t remember what the speaker’s main topic ended up being that day in sacrament meeting. But whatever the rest of her talk was about, I remember enjoying it.

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While all of our children (now aged 20, 23, 26, and 29) have had “checking” accounts since they were quite young, it is entirely possible that none of them has ever written a check. Grace used to speak of the money in her checking account as being “on” her debit card. Maybe she still thinks of her account that way. It’s not entirely irrational to conflate a card with an account when the card is your only means of interfacing with the account. (And in that spirit, thank you for for the gesture, but please do not give my children currency. They don’t know what to do with it.¹)

I mention this because I hate dealing with checks almost as much as I hate dealing with currency. Both are stupid and pointless, and unless you’re dealing drugs, we have a better way! We have several better ways, in fact. I believe Crystal and I are down to one vendor each who prefer to be paid by check: the woman who cuts Crystal’s hair and the man who services my pianos. I give my piano technician a pass because he looks to be roughly my father’s age (and walks in a similar manner). I don’t know what Crystal’s haircutter’s excuse is.

I needed to get the living room piano² tuned and to have a professional diagnose and fix a mysterious problem with the action that was preventing the D5³ hammer from working as it should (and, consequently, was driving me crazy). This meant I first needed to engage in the supremely frustrating endeavor of finding the checkbook, something I need to do (at most) twice a year. I handled this frustration with my characteristic patience, poise and charm. Fortunately, no one else was home to hear it.

Solving the D5 hammer mystery took three hours. I could write an entire letter about it. I choose not to. You’re welcome. It involved removing the entire action from the piano cabinet and putting it on the floor. I don’t know that I’d ever seen my piano in quite this way and so I took some pictures.

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The short version of the story is that one of the screws had somehow become too tight (don’t ask me how that can happen). The piano is now tuned and all put back together, and, after a brief period of darkness, I am finally happy again.

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And that, I am sorry to report (or maybe not), was the most exciting part of my month.

I mean, not counting our brief outing to Ikea. I can’t seem to go to Ikea without being overtaken by desire to throw away everything we own and replace it with all new things. We limited ourselves this time to a new loveseat for our bedroom and some organizational stuff.

Also, I somehow mustered the courage to donate 12 pairs of shoes and two large garbage bagfuls of clothes I really didn’t need anymore (despite what I kept telling myself). This is a greater accomplishment than what it sounds like. Many of these clothes held significant sentimental value to me (even though I hadn’t worn them in years). I found I was able to put certain clothes into the donation bag if I took pictures of them first. I imagine there’s a professional somewhere who can diagnose what’s going on inside my small, tortured brain, but at least I was ultimately able to do it. I still own too many old clothes (and still enjoy buying new ones).

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As it turns out, Crystal’s month was considerably more interesting than mine, and so I asked her to write the rest of the letter. This past weekend’s snowstorm has given her more time than usual (they announced on Sunday that there would be no school until at least Wednesday) and so she graciously agreed to do this.

And with that, here’s Crystal:

Crystal’s January (by Crystal!)

Outdoor Education

Every 6th grader in Montgomery County Public Schools gets to participate in something called “Outdoor Education.” The timing and location varies from year to year and is assigned by the central office. This year, Ridgeview Middle School, where I teach, was assigned to participate (and sleep over) at the Lathrop E. Smith Environmental Education Center on January 12th thru the 16th. All of Ridgeview’s 6th graders were divided into two groups: one went Monday through Wednesday, the other Wednesday through Friday. I had the privilege of going with the second group.

Students at outdoor ed sleep in cabins, eat in the dining hall, and participate in lessons primarily about the environment, spending as much as possible outdoors. Teachers do, too. As you might imagine, this is somewhat more daunting in January than it is in May. 

The students rotate through four lessons: Exploring the Watershed, Stream Study, Confidence Course and Predator/Prey Relationships. I was assigned to co-teach “Exploring the Watershed,” covering the Chesapeake Bay watershed and highlighting the fact that every drop of water that falls here eventually finds its way into the Chesapeake Bay. The children learned that when rain hits pervious surfaces, the water soaks into the ground and is filtered by layers of soil. When it hits an impervious surface (like, say, asphalt), it moves quickly downhill, carrying all the crud on the surface of the asphalt with it, ultimately into the Bay. (So, you know, plants and natural surfaces = good for the Bay; Pavement = bad for the Bay.) 

We then gave them maps of the facility, taught them how to use a compass, and sent them off to find specific sites and evaluate whether the surfaces were pervious or not, what natural and/or man-made resources were around, and whether they saw any evidence of animals. It was nice to see kids running around trying to quickly find their next spot. It is nice to see them outside, active, and happy.

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You might wonder how my on-the-spectrum students handled all of this. There were a few tearful moments, but this was mitigated by some effective pre-planning. Special education buses were provided to take students who were not spending the night back to the school at 5:15 every day. (All of the students with me from my program went home each night.) I was very touched that one of the staff members planned ahead to make it possible for my students to make s’mores at the fireplace in the dining hall before they got on buses to go home since they were going to miss the bonfire.

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The worst part of the experience for me was that the mattress on my bunk was not conducive to sleep. (More on my sleep problems later.) But my greatest victory was convicing a student with really serious sensory issues to put his feet into the rubber boots provided in order to participate in the stream study. I think we both felt really good about that accomplishment. He also relented and wrote with a regular wood pencil instead of insisting on a mechanical pencil or nothing, as is his custom. All kinds of flexibility going on! I consider this a major accomplishment for the Autism Connections program!

Sleep Study

Outdoor Education has not been the only thing interfering with my sleep lately. I have been finding it increasingly difficult to get a good night’s sleep for the past few years — mostly attributing it to aging and whatever hormonal and other changes come with this time of life. Then, a doctor that I was consulting for something else entirely declared, with startling certainty, that I have sleep apnea. He was not the kind of doctor who actually treats sleep apnea — his diagnosis was based entirely on his examining the skin around my eyes. I considered the possibility that he might not be correct, his certainty notwithstanding, but it was exciting to think that there might be some way to get a fuller, more refreshing night of sleep every night. Who wouldn’t want that? He referred me to a sleep center and, after months of waiting to see a sleep specialist, I finally underwent a sleep study on January 9. 

I arrived at a closed Bethesda office building at 9:00 pm, pushed the button at the front door, and gave a password to some offsite worker who remotely buzzed me in. I was greeted by a friendly tech who welcomed me in, gave me a chance to change into my jammies, and then wired me up, using lots of goop to attach electrodes all over my head and stickers to attach them to my back, clavicle, legs, maybe some other spots I don’t remember. I also had a tube stretching across my face and into my nose and an elastic band around my chest. He pointed out the camera and said that if I needed anything I should just call, “Yo!”, short for his name, Yohannes. 

Sleeping while all wired up like that was challenging, but not nearly as bad as sleeping on the mattress at Outdoor Ed. I wouldn’t say I slept well, but whatever it was, it all came to an abupt end at 5:00 a.m. when Yo entered the room, woke me up, removed all the electrodes, and, as kindly as one could possibly do something like this, booted me out into the street on a cold January morning. I drove home, spread a towel on my pillow so that I could lie down for a few minutes without getting goop all over the place, and then spent a long time in the shower getting all of that goop out. In hindsight, had I started earlier, I might not have been late meeting up with some other women from the ward to carpool back to Bethesda (not far from where I had just spent the night) for that day’s Regional Relief Society conference.

On MLK day, Tim accompanied me to my appointment to learn the results of my study – because what else was he doing? [Tim here: Obviously, I was busy honoring the memory of the slain civil rights leader by engaging in acts of service and reflecting on my own shortcomings in the struggle for racial equality and harmony — but mostly watching a lot of basketball.] I’m not sure that I actually heard the doctor say the words sleep apnea, but he told me I stopped breathing 19 times an hour while sleeping and that my oxygen saturation dropped to 86% (possibly — or something like that). He offered treatment by either a CPAP machine or some awful looking custom dental appliance, and I chose CPAP. I know people for whom that has worked and the dental thing looks tortuous. Unfortunately, instead of just being able to walk out of there with a CPAP machine, this means another sleep study! I’m not sure why that is, but I guess the first one was to diagnose me and the second one will be to get me on the right machine. Or something. Anyway, that’ll be next month.

Hoping to survive until then!

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Wow — that was easy. I should ask Crystal to write half the letter every month!

Hoping your new year is off to its best possible start!

Love,
Tim (& Crystal)

1. When Sophie left on her mission nearly five years ago, she handed me a literal bagful of cash that had been accumulating in her bedroom over the years and asked me to do something with it. I don’t remember what the precise amount was that I deposited to her account, but it was over a thousand dollars.
2. the piano in the basement has needed to be tuned for the past 10 years, but I just live with it.
3. For the uninitiated, D5 is two Ds above middle C — it’s a note that gets played a lot