Why I fret no more

The long story begins early sophomore year.

I hadn't started singing till sophomore year musical in high school, and I never sang in a choir until senior year. But I learned enough on the fly to become serviceable, and my combo of personality and ability landed me a spot in this superb choir at college. As a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir, status quo at the time dictated that I could effortlessly apply for and be accepted to Notre Dame Vision as a musician/mentor.

This summer program brings 1000+ kids to Notre Dame in four one-week sessions to explore their faith in small groups and as a big group, by living on campus and eating in the dining halls. It needs 60 students to work as mentors, 15 or so serving as music mentors, carrying the load in providing music all day and night.

Naturally, since most-every Folkhead that had offered themselves to the program thus far had found a summer job serving the kiddies, I figured it was my time to climb aboard and join the team. I put the usual solid work into my application and essays and waited for my audition to come, the last Friday before fall break. It was a loud Thursday night, one of the biggest party nights of each year, that included our music director telling us Folkheads at choir rehearsal that she anticipated not getting to take all of us to her band, and Friday morning brought the stress and frustration of The Gr8-Man Flood (lest we forget). I dragged my rear end to the audition and vocally did pretty "meh." The concurrence of circumstances left me on the outside looking in, given the "wait-list" spot that would never turn into an offer.

Bitterness was the primary reaction. It lasted for a good few weeks. I looked at the tenors who were accepted, and I wondered how they leapfrogged me to snag those spots in the group. They were Folkheads, too, but newbies. I wondered what they did better than me, knowing full well that their musical abilities likely exceeded mine by a solid margin. Delightfully, two of these guys are now in the handful of best friends I still carry with me from Notre Dame. Good one, God.

Eventually my bitterness was processed. It didn't evaporate; rather, it transitioned into peaceful perspective. I was really coming into my own vocationally, taking more and more strongly to my theology classes and knowing that I had chosen the right academic path, one that was forming me in faith, in reason, in understanding, and also in my potential ability to minister in my Church. I was discovering the specificities of my call, and it was becoming sharply clear.

Music was certainly a gift, but it wasn't one of my primary gifts. It was meant to be part of the equation but not the thing I do.

It was humbling and slightly frustrating. I had cruised pretty comfortably to this point. I started the musical journey as the sophomore who showed up to high school musical auditions because his girlfriend tried out, getting a part just for my maleness and ability to carry a tune. I made it from a 5-line-character to a featured part the next year and then a supporting lead as a senior. In my one year in chorus, I became the section leader and the go-to guy for my director to consult on tricky rhythms. Then at college, I got accepted to a competitive choir in my first week on campus. Now in this crossroadsy moment, I had finally hit a wall, a limit, a point at which my gifts might have been maxed out.

It's not that I couldn't continue improving my voice, my ear, my blend, my ability to read music, my capacities as a music minister; it was that my progress had to be halted to give me the opportunity to refocus myself.

At Vision, the final speaker encourages everyone gathered to reflect on non-physical compliments they have received and to compare those with the times they feel most alive in order to gain clarity on vocation. The aftermath of my Vision rejection did just this for me. Friends offered the usual consolation, affirming my singing voice and wondering why I wasn't selected. This was nice, though probably some pity rather than truth (I was simply was not one of the best tenors to audition!). The key was when they asked me about my application:

Assuming I would be a slam-dunk for music mentor, I applied only in that capacity rather than doing the double app for small-group mentoring. My friends were shocked that I didn't apply to be a small-group mentor, a mentor who works entirely with the participants rather than splitting time between musicals/liturgical music and small groups. They assured me I'd be a slam-dunk for that, and it really made me feel solid again (though stupid for not applying as such the first time). The conclusion to that piece is that I worked as a small group mentor-in-faith in Summer 2010 and again as a veteran mentor in Summer 2011. And it was the perfect fit for me.

But so continued the ongoing struggle to find the context for whatever gifts I did have in music. I struggled through the usual ebbs and flows of wanting solos in choir, then scorning solos, and then delighting in getting a few toward the end of my four years in the group. I struggled with being friends with brilliant musicians who could play by ear, jam out on guitar, and harmonize ad lib, oscillating between serious jealousy of their gifts and contentment that I had never genuinely desired those kinds of things. I found peace with the vocals because I hadn't been a singer for long.

But I had been playing instruments since 3rd grade. I knew most of musical inclination came from that. I knew I could do that well. At least, I used to...

By early senior year, I was at the brink. I knew I had to pick something up and get back to playing music. I had the capability and the potential, and given my strong grasp on college academics and life balancings, I had the time. I knew I had to pick up piano or guitar because I wanted something that was practical, able to be used and played in commonplace, not just in formal situations and not just when you bring the instrument with you. I remember going to see a friend play an acoustic set, slightly reluctantly, going just to be in solidarity with another friend who wanted to get out. That rendition of Mumford and Sons put me over the edge. I needed a guitar.

I approached my best buddy Kurt, who proudly loaned me his six-string baby for a few weeks while I waited until Thanksgiving break to acquire a guitar of my very own, from a high school friend who never got around to learning to play. I struggled my way through the basic chords, studying my CAGED diagram until I could do it by memory, and laboriously practicing a few simple songs over and over - a lot of Wolves by Josh Ritter (D Em G) and then Please Come Home by Dustin Kensrue, which continues to be my go-to song as it's the one I've played the most and for the longest.

I made my way through the first obstacles, learning that much like learning to ride a bike, you just fall a bunch of times during your many attempts and then eventually you can just ride. Within a few months, I could sight read four-chord songs and a lot of stuff in basic keys. I was just looking to be able to play the songs I liked and to be able to pitch in during sing-song jam sessions with songs that people would enjoy hearing and singing along with.

I was settling into learning a gift that had been initiated off of my own desires and my own drive. I was doing it how I wanted to do it, without responding to any pressures in any way. I continued playing and practicing and improving over the next year, getting much better during my extended practice sessions while living in Ireland and playing on a guitar worth more than my bank accounts.

The social pressures set in when we'd end up in an Irish sing-song. Everyone there - regardless of what they let on in their Irish bashful sheepishness - can sing pretty solidly, knows tons of songs, has a pretty good ear, and can probably play at least one instrument, if not more. I felt regularly inadequate and often anxious, knowing I'd be called on to play my "party piece" as a guitar was hastily moved into my hands. I'd do my thing, often missing on some chord changes, not landing my fingers cleanly, or screwing up the order of the song somehow. And I never played them a song they knew because my repertoire was stuff I liked. I was always affirmed solidly enough, but I could never shake the feeling that I had been an interruption to the steady momentum of the evening to that point, momentum that had to start fresh after I took the night off course a bit.

We were often called on as a community - the four of us Americans - to sing a song together. I struggle a cappella and can't settle in well without the support of at least a solid starting note. We'd muddle through Down to the River to Pray and be applauded all the same, but anxiety accompanied that inevitability as well. I'd always just want it to be over.

Once, we had good advance notice - we were invited (expected) to contribute a song to the St. Patrick's concert at the Notre Dame Dublin party, so my only request to the group was that we pick a song well ahead of time and practice it to mitigate my anxiety with sight-reading and slapped-together performance. This is a tough sell to two music majors who are proficient on piano and vocals and a fellow who's been playing guitar since early puberty. We dragged our feet on picking a song and slapped together Falling Slowly in time to provide a decent rendition. However, I was unsettled the whole night, as was abundantly clear with my aggravated and repeated requests for us to slow down during our brief rehearsal, struggling to move my left hand at the proper pace to pluck out the notes.

The peace began to come in a stronger, fuller dose when we made concrete plans to establish Clonard Parish's youth group - a bunch of 12-18 year-olds who'd come sing a Saturday night mass once a month and stay after to hang out and talk about faith by discussing a movie or TV show we'd screen. We'd have 3 rehearsals ahead of time, so I knew this could be the chance to make my first public contribution to liturgical music on guitar. I'd have sufficient chance to practice and get comfortable. It was a great decision. I even got to play 2nd guitar and just strum simply behind the piano and lead, a comfortable place for me to plug in and offer what I could.

I had found an appropriate balance, a way to offer my gifts in a complementary way. I was giving what I had without being counted on to be the best or to be the lead. I was finding happiness in my own playing, learning songs I'd always loved and gaining more and more skills to expand my abilities and repertoire. And here I had found a proper entry point for what I can ably do to give glory to God, to make a return to Him for all He had given me.

And last weekend, I finally found the zone, the happy place where I could offer myself and my gifts in proportion to my ability.

I was invited to lead the evening prayer time by a set of our freshmen retreat leaders at the high school where I work. Faculty members are tasked with offering a reflection on prayer, a Scripture passage and/or song, and the guidance for a meditation. I decided to pull the Parable of the Lost Son from Luke and then play Please Come Home. It went wonderfully, and I kept my guitar out to fill in the space around their spoken, shared prayers. I plucked out a quiet and sparse rendition of Fred Jones, Part 2 by Ben Folds followed by a bit of Rainslicker (keyed down) by Josh Ritter as the background to their spoken prayer.

It was smooth, easy, and appropriate. It was my contribution made on my offer. I was doing something that was fitting, glorifying God, and firmly within my abilities.

It's hard to describe the rightness of this simple contribution. Tracing the trajectory of my wrestlings with music, I hope it shows where I came from and where I am. I went from an overly presumptive amateur to a self-taught, humble instrumentalist. I went from someone struggling to understand how his gifts could minister to others to someone who put them into right action.

I found a place where, for others, I could peaceably and joyfully give musical voice to the love and presence of God.