On July 21, the National Association of Pastoral Musicians bestowed
on me its Musician of the Year award. I am deeply honored.
I’ve been associated with NPM in different involvements
since 1979, when I chaired the second national convention. Those
activities generated many of the experiences I have described in
this column.
From its inception with Fr. Virgil Fund and Sr. Jane Marie (God
rest here), NPM has been the major force in implementing the reforms
of Vatican II with a deep concern that the new liturgy be pastoral as
well as liturgical and musical.
Note well the pastoral part of this concern. Academic and juridical
components are necessary, but the pastoral segment in postconciliar
reforms is paramount—if you take the worship of the people
seriously.
NPM does and will continue to do so. God bless us all.
The award ceremony-breakfast took place during the Grand Rapids
regional convention.
Getting there and leaving there, however, were not part of the
fun. In fact, the travel was frustrating, unnerving, and could
probably vie for a place in the many levels of Dante’s Inferno.
I set aside the day before the award day as an all-day travel
day. That made necessary moving my Thursday and Friday classes
at Santa Clara University to the Wednesday before these two days.
The students were so gracious in cooperating to have a marathon “Fred
Day” to accommodate my travels. God bless ’em.
Well. The flight was delayed in San Jose—the airport of
departure—almost two hours, which screwed up my reservation
for the six o’clock flight from Chicago to Grand Rapids.
Thunderstorms over Chicago were the problem.
All flights were delayed, so I had a glimmer of a hope to catch
the 6:05 flight to Grand Rapids. In reality, it finally left at
five minutes after midnight—with me on it.
That meant I roamed around O’Hare for what seemed to be
an eternity.
However, that eternity would be repeated the next day on the return
trip for which I was wait-listed because the airlines screwed up
my itinerary.
The flight that was to leave Chicago at 4:00 finally left at I-don’t-know-what-time,
but I arrived in San Jose at 11:45 p.m. Pacific Time.
Eternity II was equal to the airport roamings of the day before.
My Zen composure was rapidly evaporating to make room for the
desire for revenge against all air travel and my mounting intolerance
of the five million people roaming around me in the airport.
I ate more junk in my wanderings, fantasizing that it was a type
of manna, not necessarily from heaven.
I charged my cell phone, which committed suicide during one of
my many phone calls to the outside world. I was lucky to find an
outlet at the base of one of the check-in desks.
I drank four gallons of diet soda.
I read the New Yorker and Time magazines twice
plus parts of two essay-novels, loaned to me by my very hip sixteen-year-old
friend.
One was a graphic novel (thick comic book) and the other was a
stream-of-consciousness book.
Both were almost as bizarre as my exposure to domestic displacement.
Since I was carrying a tote bag with m toiletries, yesterday’s
change of clothes, and some munchies, it dawned on me that I was
carrying all my belongings in this canvas bag.
It didn’t take much for me to extend that element into m
participation in homeless living.
M self-pity nearly suffocated me—until I saw a genuine full-time,
airport resident scrounging around a garbage can to find something—anything—to
eat.
Thunderclap, lightning bolt, and the floor quaking—all happening
in my psyche (sent by God, no doubt) just to remind me that I was
in a Brooks Brothers suit, having just come from a significant
event where so many wonderful folks said flattering and loving
things to me. All of this was a wakeup call that I was not alone
and that I was incredibly blessed and that I should stop my whining
and shut up.
Grasping my award to my bosom, I thanked God in my most humble
squeaking voice and vowed that I wouldn’t complain any longer—or,
at least, not until I saw the first body at the university the
next day so I could lament my plot to another set of ears.
After all, martyrdom is never private.
