Give Thanks...For Ward Choirs

 Last year (at least, I think it was last year...), I was asked to serve as a choir leader for our local LDS congregation. I believe you don't have to be a member of my religion to understand what this calling entails. Choirs in local congregations are often times the butt of jokes in music circles...and in other circles, too. They're an easy target. We invite anyone wishing to sing to join. Heck, I'm sure I've made jokes about these choirs over the years.

I don't think I'll ever do that again.

Our ward choir sang in church today. We had one rehearsal two weeks ago and went through the song one and one-half times this morning before our services began. They sounded wonderful. I'm not saying they were "world-class" in their presentation of the hymn, but boy, they sounded great--just ordinary church goers who enjoy singing.

When I was called, I felt inadequate, even though I've been singing in choirs--amateur and professional--for the past forty years. I've sung in regular choirs and I've sung with talent that's second to none. I was afraid I would be expected to get the singers to sound like a choir that blew people away. I quickly realized that's not my job...not my calling. I'm there to help the singers and the congregation feel something, to bring a spirit to the meeting.

I'm far from doing the best job with this calling. I have a long way to go--there's so much more I can do for the ward. That's the thing about callings. They're not not given to those who have mastered the skill...more like given to those who need to learn something.

I'm thankful for my neighbors who stay late and rehearse, who come early--small kids in tow--to support me and the program. I'm thankful I can stand before them and hear the music we create before anyone else. I'm thankful for ward choirs.

Give Thanks...The Land That I Love

 I took this picture of our flag on October 14th of this year. Tomorrow, I'll fly it again--both times to honor those who made it possible for me to be born, grow up, and live in this incredible country. This is the month where many of my fellow countrymen find things for which the are thankful and they share those thoughts with others.

Today, I'm thankful for where I live.

Having lived almost sixty years on this planet, I've seen some history. Had I properly studied history I would have known more, but between my grandparents and my self, our lives cover the years of 1885 to the present day. In those three generations, the world has forever changed. Very few living today could even comprehend what life was like in the 1800s. Tonight, I'm sitting in a climate-controlled room communicating on a device that can send these words to literally billions of people. We have food in our house that I did not have to hunt, water we did not have to dredge up from the ground, vehicles in the garage that can take us around the world. Even the most vivid imaginations of my grandparent's generation could ever have dreamed how we would live today.

We live in the age of miracles.

And the United States of America stands apart. The experiment allowing humans guaranteed rights, rights that should not be taken away by men with guns (governments or criminals...) was so novel, so radical, so important for humanity, that once implemented, the world would never be the same.

November is only ten-days old and the month has left its mark on history. I've watched with fascination the highest and lowest of emotions, and yet, the life I live cannot compare with the highs and lows of the people who came before, who sacrificed all. We sometimes (many times...) forget that history did not start the day we were born. That's a shame, and not only that, but forgetting history--true history--can doom a society.

Tonight I walked to the end of a dead end street where homes will one day line a new road. I looked up. The sky was aflame with reds and oranges and blues and colors that took my breath away. I get to live on that street. I get to live in a country where, because of good people obeying laws, me and my family can live in relative peace. Because I've not studied history, I know of few other people who have been so blessed.

Events of the past week have caused millions to flood social media with their opinions, their griefs, their joys. I add my voice to theirs to say I'm thankful where I live. I'm thankful to have never wanted for food, for shelter, for love. I'm thankful for this land that I love.

One Hundred Years Ago Today...A Great Man Was Born

 On this day in 1924 my father was born in Harlem, Montana...one century, one hundred years, Harry A. Taylor, my father.

When I think of amazing men, amazing Americans, I think of my dad. When the Great Depression hit, he was old enough to understand things were bad, and if not, he definitely knew by the time it ended a decade later. Imaging going from a depression economy to a nation at war, which is exactly what happened. Dad had to wait until he turned eighteen in1945 to enlist, but when he did, they sent him to Germany and placed him behind a tail gun in a B-17 because he was an expert marksman. His family sent five brothers to fight in WWII...they all survived.

When he returned, the man who never graduated from high school earned a four-year engineering degree in three years, an incredible feat even then. He married my mother and after years of trying for children of their own, they adopted other's children, and they did it three times. He worked as an engineer for several companies finally ending up as a civilian worker at Hill Air Force Base. My parents bought six acres of land on the mountain in Farmington, Utah, where he designed and began building his dream home. 

He never saw its completion. 

The law of averages says reaching your one-hundredth birthday is rare. My father was months shy of reaching half that. He passed away at forty-nine, leaving a wife and three children under eleven-years old.

One hundred years is a milestone. Buildings have celebrations when they reach that mark (at least they do in the Western United States because that is considered old...). When people turn one-hundred local news do stories on them and families gather to celebrate.

For my father, this blog post may be the only thing written about him, the only mention the world will know of his birth and a little about his short, but important life. It's a shame, in a way, that we're not holding celebrations, no gatherings, no parties. Of my father's eleven siblings, only one remains, and of my immediate family, only my brother and I are left to remember the man we barely knew.

From what I know about my father, I doubt he'd be upset that this may be the only acknowledge of his birthday. It's not when a person is born that's important, it's what you do with the time you have, and my father...well, he's my Gold Standard on how to live a truly special life.

Happy birthday, Dad. I cannot thank you enough for everything you've done for me. Love you and miss you still.