On failed and successful auditions, interfaith unity, and lots and lots of complaining (vol. xxvi, no. 9)

Dear Family,

As if further evidence were needed that I am not a very good father, I found myself feeling a sense of relief earlier this month upon learning that Grace had not been cast in Northwood High School’s fall production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Grace had auditioned for the role of a fairy. My reaction to her not having gotten the part was not entirely rooted in selfishness. It is true that I may not have been excited by the prospect of sitting through multiple performances of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (even though, let’s face it, who better to put it on than a group of adolescents?). But my misgivings had more to do with the fact that the older I get, the more I identify with Neil Perry’s awful father in Dead Poets Society.

Mr. Perry is not a sympathetic character — you go from merely disliking him at the beginning of the movie to hating him at the end. But the fact that he was a detestable jerk doesn’t change the fact that he wasn’t actually wrong. And the reality is that Grace isn’t getting enough sleep as it is and probably has too much going on right now to be in the play.

What’s more, I’m reasonably certain that Grace and her mother agree with me. At any rate, Grace will be a lock for a significant role in the spring musical. So there’s that.

Among the things consuming Grace’s time and attention are questions around where she wants to go to college next year and where she should apply. Her parents have not been as helpful as some in helping her size up her options, visit campuses, etc. This is partially attributable to Crystal’s currently demanding work/school schedule (see below). I don’t have as good of an excuse myself, but I am confident that Grace will overcome this. To paraphrase something Crystal says often, we do the best we can and pray our children forgive us.

Choir

Grace was not the only family member to audition this month.

Owing to how much I enjoyed singing in the choir at last month’s temple dedication, I decided to audition this month to become a member of the Washington D.C. Temple Choir. Unlike the choir I sang in last month, which was temporarily established for the sole purpose of singing at the dedication, the Washington D.C. Temple Choir is a more permanent institution that, according to the website, has been performing since 1980. If the website is up to date, the choir consists of 80 or so singers from 50 or so Latter-day Saint congregations in and around Washington, D.C.

The prospect of auditioning made me nervous. My last vocal audition came in 7th grade, when I tried out for a certain prestigious boys choir in Philadelphia. I passed that audition (I don’t know whether any audio evidence exists of my distinguished career as a boy soprano — by all accounts I was a good one) but ultimately did not join that choir.

In the 38 years since, I have auditioned for a number of piano-related things, but this was my first vocal audition since puberty.

The audition began with the two directors asking me to sing a hymn of my choosing. I opted for “In Humility, Our Savior,” in part because it’s my favorite hymn¹ and in part because it’s pretty easy to sing (which, come to think of it, I guess is true of most hymns). I was nervous and did not sing it particularly well. I got the notes right, but that’s about all and it couldn’t have taken them more than three seconds to check the No box next to “potential soloist?” on the audition form.² They managed not to wince, but this seems to be a skill of all music adjudicators.³

The rest of the audition involved sight singing and some other technical things that I have a reasonable aptitude for, and I got through it all rather comfortably. (The associate director called me “superstar” after the technical part — something no one had ever before called me in any context, except perhaps ironically. It made me happy.)

I had listed myself as a second tenor (the lower of the two tenor sections) on my audition form, but after putting me through my paces, the directors told me that I was really more of a baritone (a term they use interchangeably with “first bass,” the higher of the two bass sections). They were right to put me with the baritones. I have always sung tenor in church choirs because that is customarily where they need the most help. (When our ward choir sang in sacrament meeting this past Sunday for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I not only anchored the tenor section, I literally was the entire tenor section.) It’s wonderful to be able to rehearse and sing in the richest part of my register, surrounded by men I can just relax and blend with. That the choir has four full men’s sections is a rare delight in itself. A lot of the time I can’t even hear myself.

Our name notwithstanding, we don’t actually perform in the temple, though it sounds like we perform at the temple visitors’ center quite a bit. We’ll be performing our Christmas concert there on Saturday, December 10th at 7 p.m. Mark your calendar now! We’ll also be part of Jenny Oaks Baker’s concert at Capital One Hall (in Tysons) on December 19th. (Unlike at the visitor’s center, you’ll have to pay to hear us there.)

I am given to understand that we will also perform at the ceremony when they turn on the Christmas lights at the visitors’ center (whenever that is — I never knew they had a ceremony for that) and for the temple workers’ annual Christmas devotional. (Which I guess means we will be performing in the temple after all — the only downside being that I’ll have to sit through and endure the entire temple workers’ Christmas devotional. I attended one of those a dozen or so years ago and that was more than enough for me. But it’s worth it to be able to sing.)

Unity Walk

On September 11th, the Interfaith Council of Metropolitan Washington hosted its annual “Unity Walk” up and down Massachusetts Avenue in the District to visit various houses of worship. I’m glad we went, even though it ended up being kind of like camping (for me). By “like camping” I mean it sounds like a lovely idea and I’m generally excited to go there and get set up. But as the time drags on, I mostly just want it to be over so I can go home.

The event started at the Washington Hebrew Congregation with a resource fair and desserts bazaar. The desserts bazaar included, according to the program, “treats from the Muslim, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Zoroastrian, Sikh, Jewish, and Hindu communities.” We arrived late and I have no idea what our community’s treat was. Beyond the Intermountain West we are quite a diverse bunch, and I honestly can’t think of any food that is quintessentially “us.” Funeral potatoes, maybe. But those aren’t really a treat.

Who am I kidding? Yes they are! But I doubt that’s what we served.

We moved into the synagogue’s main sanctuary where we were treated to brief sermons on unity, love, and tolerance by Jewish, Sikh, Catholic, and Buddhist leaders. These people were all lovely and — and I cannot overemphasize the importance of this — they stayed within the time limit. I love five-minute sermons, and I don’t really have the attention span for a sermon that goes much beyond 10 minutes. I don’t understand why everybody can’t do that. And I really don’t understand why visiting authorities feel it necessary to ramble on for 45 minutes at the end of the stake conference sessions. But I digress.

After the sermonettes, it was time to start the long schlep up and down Mass. Ave. The morning and early afternoon had been rainy, even a bit chilly. But as we emerged from the Washington Hebrew Congregation, the sun had emerged. It felt as if the very God all of us worship in our various ways actually wanted this thing to happen.

We walked through a Catholic church…

…and a Greek Orthodox church…

…and a Russian Orthodox church.

We walked through other lovely places as well, but I became less interested as the afternoon wore on and the outdoor temperature rose. It topped out at about 78 degrees, which might sound nice to people fortunate to live in dry places. But when the humidity brings the dew point up to 72 degrees, as it did that day, that’s hell on earth no matter how many churches you visit.

Within an hour of walking I had sweated through my three-piece suit (which I had donned more than eight hours earlier when it was cold and rainy). I was miserable and wanted nothing more than just to go home.

Fortunately, I don’t complain much [Hold for laughter]. Crystal thinks my forced smile in this picture sums it up best:

And so we ducked out of the Unity Walk early, but not before catching the stylings of “Interfaith Comedy” hosted by the Community of Christ. (They had a brochure with a picture of the Kirtland Temple on it — it felt a little like bumping into myself in a parallel universe.) The comedy troupe consisted of two Christian dudes, an Orthodox Jewish woman and a Muslim woman. They somehow managed to tell mostly self-deprecating jokes that simultaneously leaned into their stereotypes while subtly mocking those of us who harbor them. They were amusing, even if it was the kind of humor that I’m never quite sure I’m allowed to laugh at.

At the Nexus of Secondary & Higher Education

Notwithstanding some lingering issues getting Canvas to work and a few other technical challenges, Crystal’s first month as a special education teacher in Ridgeview Middle School’s high-functioning autism program seems to have gone pretty well. She loves her students and feels well supported.

Crystal has cut back her schedule at Johns Hopkins to just one class this semester while she adjusts to the new job. That class happens to an “internship review.” The internship element of it is somewhat obviated by the fact that she currently has a teaching job (one that theoretically requires her to hold the master’s degree she is currently pursuing, but there’s a teacher shortage). She still has to write lots of “reflections” about various things and situations. These eat up quite a bit of her time and I sometimes feel guilty listening to her toil away in her office, typing late into the evening while I dutifully watch football and eat bowls of Reese’s Puffs in the bedroom next door. (Someone has to do it.)

Her unusual new teacher/student-teacher/student role also means that, between the mentor Crystal has been assigned at the school, the person from the district charged with monitoring first-year teachers, and the guy from Hopkins who pops into her class every now and then, she is getting more than her fair share of oversight. This does not seem to bother her and people routinely tell her she’s doing a great job. (I don’t know whether anyone has called her “superstar.”)

Ari continues to love their work as a Kids After Hours counselor. They started coursework in child development at Howard Community College this month, a prerequisite to being promoted to work with children in a “group leader” capacity. Kids After Hours is footing the bill for this education, and so we’re happy about that.

Sophie’s weekly dispatches from Temple Square (see if you can find her in the video) and our weekly conversations with her via Facebook Messenger on Wednesday evenings continue to be a welcome window into the unique amalgam of frustration, self-doubt, and happiness — “their sorrows, and their afflictions, and their incomprehensible joy,” as Mormon puts it in Alma 28. “… sorrow because of death and destruction among men, and joy because of the light of Christ unto life” — that characterizes full-time missionary service.

She is on her third transfer with the same companion — a rarity, she says, in her mission. Fortunately, they seem to like each other. Sophie’s companion is from Japan (and therefore wears a Japanese flag). But she also speaks Mandarin and so sometimes wears a Taiwanese flag instead. When she does, she and Sophie (who continues to wear her Russian flag, despite having personally been chased out of Ukraine by the Russians earlier this year) probably come across, without meaning to, as the most politically fraught pair of sisters around.

The Sports Section

As it has for the last several non-pandemic years, September brought the annual Civil War Century bicycle ride with my brothers. The 102-ish mile (the exact mileage/route changes slightly from year to year due to road construction, etc.) ride through the northern Blue Ridge Mountains of Maryland and Pennsylvania goes past, near, or through the Civil War battlefields of Antietam, South Mountain, and Gettysburg.

Andrew didn’t feel up to it this year. But fortunately Grant did (I don’t ever see myself doing this ride without at least one of my brothers). Grant and I were joined at the start line by a half-dozen acquaintances from his work and our respective neighborhoods. The plan for all of us to ride together went out the window when Grant realized he had forgotten his cycling shoes. This oversight necessitated an unscheduled hour-long drive to Thurmont by Jen with the shoes.

The rest of our group started without us, but not before several of them observed something along the lines of, “There’s no way in hell my wife would do that for me at 6:45 on a Saturday morning.” But that’s Jen for you. I hung back to wait with Grant because I was more interested in riding with him than with a bunch of guys I either barely know or don’t know at all. Actually, I’d rather ride my bike with Grant than with almost anyone else in the world.

I have had occasion recently to think about how much I admire Grant. He is benevolent and gentle, smart and kind. He’s just good. Being the stake president’s big brother is actually kind of cool. I got to have him renew my temple recommend earlier this month (during Mom’s birthday party, pursuant to his interviewing me in Dad’s study). It made me happy. I can complain to him about problems at church that both of us know will never actually be solved, and he knows me well enough not to take anything I say too seriously (even though I’m right). Most of my complaints relate to the building where meet on Sundays (and the people who are paid to ostensibly maintain it). If our meetinghouse were ever to burn down suspiciously, any reasonable list of suspects would have to include me.

I honestly can’t think of a time (in adulthood, anyway) when I have felt anything other than affection and admiration for Grant. I could say the same about all four of my brothers. I don’t know how common or unusual this is among brothers, but it’s comforting and I’m grateful for it.

I am grateful for you, as well.

Love,
Tim

1. “In Humility, Our Savior” is my favorite hymn in our hymnbook, but my favorite hymn in any hymnbook is “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling,” a Methodist hymn, which I hope will find its way into our forthcoming hymnbook. Mack Wilberg’s arrangement sets it to the tune of “In Humility, Our Savior” and whenever I listen to the Tabernacle Choir sing it, I can’t get through the fourth verse without weeping.
2. The audition form was not returned to me, and so I don’t actually know what they wrote, but I have a pretty good idea.
3. As an adult, I have witnessed my fair share of adjudicated middle school band, orchestra, and chorus performances. Somehow the judges always manage to remain poker faced and I have no idea how they do it.