Dear Family,
Earlier this month, precisely 15 years, 2 months, and 29 days after Crystal and I got into the business of being parents to teenagers, we finally left that chapter behind by celebrating Grace’s 20th birthday.
We marked the occasion (sort of — technically we were a week early) by driving down to Lexington, Virginia, to watch and listen to Grace perform in a production of the one-act Puccini opera, Suor Angelica (yeah, I hadn’t heard of it, either) at Grace Episcopal Church on the campus of Washington and Lee University. A beautiful old church and a charming little town.
It’s fitting to stage an opera about nuns in a church, even a non-Catholic one — do Anglicans/Episcopalians have nuns? (According to Google AI, they do!) And, really the setting could not have been more perfect.
Grace did not have a major role in the opera, but what she sang she sang well.
She makes for a pretty cute nun.
(Incidentally, for over a hundred years and until somewhat recently, Grace Episcopal in Lexington was named “Robert E. Lee Memorial Episcopal Church,” as evidenced by the inscriptions in some of the hymnals. Given how the wind seems to be blowing these days, I imagine there’s a movement to change it back.)
Southern Virginia University, which Grace attends, is in neighboring Buena Vista, which is comparable in size to Lexington but feels considerably smaller. This is doubtless because Lexington is home to two larger and better-known schools (VMI and Washington & Lee) as well as many of the amenities you expect to find in a college town — Walmart, the Chick-fil-A where Grace works, a Dairy Queen, an Applebee’s AND a Ruby Tuesday.
Buena Vista, to my knowledge, does not have any such high-end establishments. Everyone on campus is reportedly really excited about the new Buc-ee’s going in off I-81 near Harrisonburg, about 60 miles away. (That isn’t a dig. I am genuinely excited about the new Buc-ee’s off I-81 and I don’t live anywhere near there. I’ve been to Buc-ee’s exactly once in my life — driving home from Florida two Christmases ago — and am already a fan. I’ll always be a Wawa guy in the great Wawa/Sheetz/Royal Farms debate that consumes certain parts of the Eastern Seaboard, but Buc-ee’s is working on a whole different level.)
Because Buena Vista has no hotels to speak of and none of Lexington’s lodging options are of the type where our Marriott Bonvoy status does us any good, Crystal and I spent the night of Grace’s performance in an Applebee’s-facing room at the Lexington Best Western.
That’s actually how the friendly front-desk clerk described it. “You’ll be up one level on the Applebee’s side.” It occurred to me to wonder (though I didn’t ask) how she described the other side of the property, which faces nothing at all. The lock on the door did not work very well, which was a little disconcerting, but we ultimately figured that we weren’t exactly in a high-crime area.
We survived the night and thoroughly enjoyed spending Saturday morning and early afternoon with our soon-to-be non-teenager. We had breakfast at a charming little cafe in Lexington (the Sweet Shop, I think it was called). We then took her grocery shopping at the Lexington Walmart, driving past the largest confederate flag I’ve ever seen along the way.
Grace is still a novice in the fine art of taking advantage of your parents when they take you grocery shopping as a college student. With a little prompting, she eventually figured out that this was the outing to load up on Tide Pods and other expensive staples. I thought all college students instinctively understood that this is one of the main reasons you have parents, but it’s sweet of her not to feel inclined to do that.
We also enjoyed having Grace show us around campus, including the writing center where she works (and loves it).
We got to see a little more of Grace this past week because she was off for spring break, which, lucky for her, corresponded with cherry blossom week up here! So she and Ari went down the tidal basin on Thursday. (I think it was Thursday.)
As usual, Grace’s visit left us both happy to see her and wishing we could see her more. She left at 5 o’clock this morning (I’m writing this late Sunday night) in order to get home in time for her job singing in the Methodist church choir.
So I guess Grace now has three paying jobs: Chick-fil-A, tutoring at the campus writing center, and singing for the Methodists. Nice work if you can get it.
A Musical Month!
We celebrated Maurice Ravel’s 150th birthday on March 7th by going to see the National Symphony Orchestra perform Bolero, as well as a Debussy I didn’t know and a couple of Italian composers with whom I was completely unfamiliar but enjoyed.
The performance also featured a trombone concerto – a trombone concerto! I never knew there was such a thing. Rightly or wrongly (probably wrongly) the trombone is one of those instruments that occupies the same part of my brain as the banjo. They both strike me as “comedic” instruments. Just like the banjo always makes me think I’m about to watch an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard, a solo trombone always makes me think someone just lost on The Price is Right.
But the trombone concerto was pretty cool (and impressive) and I’m really glad I got to see/hear it.
The NSO tickets, as usual, were compliments of my friend Ira, a bassist in the orchestra. It was our first trip to the Kennedy Center since President Trump fired everybody and appointed himself the head of it. We were pleasantly surprised to see that all the international flags in the Hall of Nations had not been ripped out and that the giant bust of Kennedy in the Grand Foyer had not yet been replaced with one of The Donald. I imagine it’s just a matter of time.
A little over a week later, on St. Patrick’s Day, we ventured up to an out-of-the-place I’d never heard of in the wilds of Baltimore County called The Loft at Manor Mill to hear a fun little Irish folk trio called Kalos. A fiddler, a guitarist and an accordionist/pianist, they also sing well. As a teetotaler of principally English extraction (and with no Irish ancestry to speak of) I don’t have much use for St. Patrick’s Day, but these guys were a lot of fun.
Finally, this weekend, the Washington D.C. Temple Choir and Orchestra joined forces for two great performances of Rob Gardner’s sacred Easter oratorio, Lamb of God.
We performed on Saturday night at the Annandale Virginia stake center, where more than a thousand people filled the chapel, the cultural hall and several overflow rooms. The turnout was reminiscent of what you might get at a stake conference with an A-list General Authority visitor.1
I was worried the huge crowd on Saturday night might blunt turnout at the Silver Spring Maryland stake center the next night (Sunday — i.e., tonight). But the Sunday-night crowd might have been even larger than the one in Annandale. Hard to say for sure, but I’ve been going to church at the Silver Spring Maryland stake center for almost 30 years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in that building all at once. Parking was crazy (as Grant pointed out in his opening remarks, the landscaping company that tends to our lawn might get upset) and I tremble to contemplate the current state of the restrooms. (I’m just glad next weekend begins the other ward’s month to clean the church building.)
But the production was wonderful. We had top-flight vocal soloists, and the solo cellist (Jesus is voiced by a solo cello in this work) was out of this world. Crystal and I were in the choir and felt fortunate just to be part of it.
“You’re not that old”
A frustrating injury has prevented me from running for most of the past month. In fact, I could scarcely walk at the beginning of the month without near-continuous doses of ibuprofen.
On the plus side, this has compelled me to rekindle my relationship with a physical therapist who I think does good things for both my body and spirit (if not for my wallet — he doesn’t take insurance, so I’m out of pocket big $$, but he’s worth it). I’ve spent much of the past month having him dry-needle my piriformis, gluteus minimus, medius, and maximus, and a bunch of muscles in my lower back that I don’t know what they’re called.
It could be all in my head, but it seems to work for me. I tend to catastrophize every injury and conclude that I’ll never be able to run again. But this physical therapist has a manner about him that is also good for my mental health.
My concerns sometimes lead to spiritual conversations with him about what it would mean if that were actually true — if I in fact could not ever run again — and how I would come to terms with no longer being able to do something I love doing.
It makes me think about my Grandpa Willis, who by many accounts was a reasonably good organist. But I have no memory of him playing the organ. Because for most of the years during which our lives overlapped, his left hand (I think it was his left hand. Was it his left hand?) was withered from arthritis. I can imagine myself feeling bitter about that. And maybe grandpa did, but he never showed it. He never seemed embittered, or even a little grumpy, about anything. My only lasting memory of him is as a happy old man. I’d like to be like that when I grow up.
But inevitably, my doomsday conversations with the physical therapist always end with him telling me, “You’re not that old. You are going to get better. If you were 80, we might be having a different conversation. But you’re just not that old.”
So I’ve at least got that going for me. Still, it makes me think of some future day when I’ll have to come to terms with not being able to do everything I want to do. I hope I handle it as well as my grandpa (both of my grandpas, actually) seemed to.
I started feeling somewhat better and asked the physical therapist if I could start running. He replied with what I think must be every doctor’s four favorite words: Listen to your body.
It sounds like good advice, but I seldom find it helpful because different parts of my body tell me different things. But I took it as license to give running a try.
And so I was unusually excited to participate in a local club race yesterday (Saturday) morning — a little four-mile trail race through Wheaton Regional Park, a couple of miles from our house. (I rode my bike to the starting line.)
The course was two loops through the woods. My plan was to run the loop once and see how I felt. I hadn’t run any significant distance in at least a month — my longest such layoff in nearly 15 years — and recent attempts at running left me limping in pain after just a mile. And so I figured two miles was a good goal.
I started at the very back of the pack — with literally no one behind me.
I walked across the start line and started a very easy jog. I felt a little pain, but nothing major. I picked up the pace a tiny bit and held it there. Gradually I started passing people on the course. First the walkers, then the very oldest and very slowest runners.
A smile crept across my face.
I glanced at my watch as I went past one mile. No real pain to speak of. A little, but nothing debilitating. I maintained the same very easy pace. I somehow missed the exit after the first lap and so I kept going.
Two miles. Three miles.
I came to the end of the second loop, turned off the trail and was filled with elation as I made my way toward the finish line. I high-fived everyone in sight and mugged for the finish line cameraman like I had just PR’d a marathon.
I can’t remember the last time I ran so slowly — I came in sixth from last in my age group — and yet I can’t remember the last time I felt so ecstatic crossing a finish line.
I’m not all the way back, but I’m definitely feeling better. I am grateful for that. Mostly because it means I’ll likely be able to help push my friend Shauna’s wheelchair at next Saturday’s Sole of the City 10K in Baltimore. Keep your fingers crossed for that!
Sunday night has now officially become Monday morning and I really need to go to bed. It’s been an exhausting but immensely satisfying weekend.
Hope this finds you happy, too!
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
So excited you are running again. Take it slow and easy. Great letter.