The Fairy Tale that didn't get rained out

When I woke up at 3:58 in the morning last Saturday, I knew there was no way I was getting back to sleep.  I was confident of this unfortunate reality not only because the nervous energy resulting from the realization that I’d be getting married in just over 12 hours had already started coursing through my body but also because I couldn’t stop watching the periodic lighting strikes which, though a long way away, were already lighting up the early morning darkness.  

Our ceremony took place in a ravine (aka “the clearing”) at the far end of my parents’ farm.  Sarah chose that place not only for the natural beauty but also because it was there, on the back of a four-wheeler, that I first told Sarah I loved her.  As we watched the photographer posing Sarah on a bridge over ravine’s creek, my sister turned to me and stated, “she looks like a fairy and I mean that in a good way.”  It was at that moment that Sarah’s “vision” (as she kept referring to it) for our wedding ceremony finally made sense in my mind.  The arch, decorations, dress and even the wreath crown she was wearing all worked in unison to create a fairy-tale like aura to our ceremony.  The vision came together despite the fact that just a few hours earlier, we were quite concerned it was never going to happen.

In order to get back to “the clearing”, one must drive across a freshly plowed field.  After just a bit of rain, this field becomes impassable to anything heavier than a four-wheeler.  Eventually, the lightning which I had been watching at four in the morning brought along a downpour lasting almost an hour.  At 6:07 AM, my dad declared “the clearing” dead.  It appeared we’d be relocating the ceremony to the back-up spot, a shaded area on the bank of our farm pond.  While the back-up spot was an idyllic farm setting, it didn’t quite have the ambiance Sarah was going for.  By 6:08 AM, it seemed the only question we had left was whether the four-wheeler would be able to get through the mud and back to “the clearing” so we could pick up the arch frame we’d left there the night before.  

As my dad was driving back to “the clearing” to answer that question, he noticed the ground becoming less muddy, even turning to dust, as he drove further from the house and closer to “the clearing”.  In a surprising turn of events, “the clearing” had been resuscitated.  While we’d received over half an inch of rain at the house, “the clearing” (about a half mile away) had gotten just enough rain to settle the dust, which is the exact amount my dad had been hoping for (despite that “just enough to settle the dust” was usually a derogatory description of a rain shower when used by a famer).  As the ceremony began at about 4:45 PM, with the line of cars that had driven through the field parked along the top of the ravine, the weather was a perfect 82 degrees, partly sunny and with a gentle breeze.  While that breeze would eventually blow in a near tornado just as we were wrapping up the post-ceremony meal we’d shared back up at the house, at the moment our ceremony began, I was giddy with how we’d managed to pull off the perfect weather for an outdoor wedding.  

After a processional consisting of our elder niece carrying our younger niece, our daughter as a flower girl and our oldest son picking up and carrying our youngest son after he couldn’t convince him to walk, Sarah hugged her dad just as the medley playing in the background changed to “Bless the Broken Road.”  At that moment, my giddiness was overcome by tears of joy.  The real-time image of this beautiful woman, reddish-brown hair falling down onto a stunning white dress while flashing a smile lighting up everything in its sight, walking down the aisle with the intent of becoming my bride was, in my mind, juxtaposed along with the images of the “broken road” that had brought us to this point.  For a few minutes, the emotion was a bit too intense to keep inside, so it found an escape route through my tear ducts.  

Really, that “broken road” has been a large theme of my writing on this blog over the past couple of years.  Similarly, the theme of the homily given by my friend who officiated the wedding was “beauty from ashes.”  The time I spent in Breakthrough, four years ago this month as well as the therapist sessions before and after that intense month of counseling were, in a large part, focused on helping me acquire what I found formalized on my wedding day, a primary relationship that is healthy, fulfilling and mutually complimentary.   When I started that journey toward a healthy relationship, I had no idea what was coming at me.  On the other side of that journey, though I’m so thankful for how the pain of the past has contributed to the joy of the present.  Of course, now real life with Sarah (kids, bills, careers, annoying each other) begins continues.  I know enough about myself and my wife to know that this new journey, while not always easy, is going to be successful and fun and maybe even provide a few more moments which bring tears to my eyes.

In one of those weird twists to a story, two of my best friends who were both supposed to be groomsmen in my first wedding 19 years ago but, for various reasons, were unable to be in attendance, ended up being a part of this wedding celebration.  Michael, mentioned above, drove from California to Iowa to officiate the ceremony.  While I can’t state how grateful I am that he made it a priority to be a part of the wedding, I’m not quite convinced that his long drive gave him the right to declare “that’s enough” as I was enjoying kissing my new bride.  My other friend, Jason, came down from Omaha for the “before they say I do” party Sarah’s parents threw for us back in May.  Now that I’ve ensured that all my long-time friends have been able to participate in either my first or second wedding, I’m officially retiring from the wedding business… and continuing my life with one of the most beautiful and intelligent women this world has ever seen.  

My Therapist Would Approve

“But I need all the cracks in my shattered heart, 'cause that’s where her love gets in.”  – Dierks Bentley

Blog world, meet Sarah Wissmann.  Sarah Wissmann, meet my droves of faithful readers. 

Wait… something about the above doesn’t seem right.  No, it’s not what you might think.  Of course, I have droves of faithful readers. 
Or not. 
Either way, let’s try this again.

Blog world, meet Dr. Sarah Wissmann.  Dr. Sarah Wissmann, meet my droves of faithful readers. 

While “droves” may or not be an accurate adjective, “Dr.” is most definitely an accurate title for the Subject of this blog post. I’ll admit to not being the least bit embarrassed by the fact that someone as smart as Dr. Wissmann finds our conversations mentally stimulating.  At least, most of our conversations.  Or maybe a few of our conversations? 
Nah, she thinks I’m smart, too. 

Here’s the skinny on Dr. Sarah.  She is educated, accomplished, published, emotionally self-aware, relationally intuitive, well traveled, a lover of Jesus, of a Methodist upbringing, progressive, thoughtful, a committed mom, a graduate of Iowa State College of Veterinary Medicine while simultaneously NOT a fan of Cyclone athletics, a great kisser, a skilled dancer and adorable.  Stunningly, gorgeously, adorable. 

 If the saying “like attracts like” is true, Sarah’s choice to be with me is a compliment stretching the limits of plausibility.  Let’s not think about it too much, though.  After all, isn’t there some other saying about the mouth of a gift horse or something?  Either way, the compliment of her choice is an honor I plan to live up to. 

There’s another quality of Sarah’s that I find quite attractive.  In fact, this quality stands out among an arm’s length long list of attractive qualities.  Sarah is the exactly the type of woman for whom my therapist told me to hold out.  In this earlier blog post, I passed along what said therapist shared with me regarding the two different places from which someone can begin a romantic relationship.  

“1) Coming from a place of strength in which they’re okay with themselves and okay with being alone yet they choose to be with the other person or 2) Coming from a place of need, in which they have no choice but to be with the other person because they can’t bear the idea of being alone and they need the validation that comes from being in a relationship.  She explained that starting a relationship from the second reason is like building a house out of 2x4’s that are rotten on the inside.  At first, things look fine but eventually the house will collapse in on itself because no other person can meet nor fill that role.”

Sarah comes to me from the first option, from a place of strength.  From the time of her divorce (the story of which is hers to tell) until our first date, she dated minimally.  In fact, “minimally” might be an understatement.  Instead of going on dates, Sarah spent a lot of time in her therapists’ office.  Rather than sacrificing time with her kids by dating guys she in whom she was only somewhat interested, she decided to wait until she finally found someone who possessed the characteristics for which she was looking.  She has slowly shared with me, in the form of handwritten notes, the character traits which she sees in me that prompted her to “come out of retirement.”  In addition to learning from the mistakes of her first marriage, Sarah possessed the patience, self-confidence and discernment necessary for pursuing a second chance at love from a place of strength. 

Full disclosure – my own “broken road” was different than Sarah’s.  While she hardly dated at all, I spent a season as a professional dater of sorts.  Though that season resulted in clarity and growth it eventually had to give way to a Lenten season of grief and aloneness.  

With Easter came a shot at a new dating app, “Coffee Meets Bagel.”  A match with a pretty redhead resulted in an invitation for her to accompany me to Ruins Pub followed by a concert being put on by a friend of mine.  The pictures on her profile, while nice to look at, failed to prepare me for the misplaced heartbeat that occurred the moment her front door swung open and I laid eyes on the beautiful smile located just below those smiling eyes.

I mean, who wouldn't be interested in a profile like that one

I guess, if you resisted the first profile pic, you'd fail to do so with this one

Our very first message

Watching that girl dance is a
thing of beauty

Repping the other alma mater

Don't let the smile fool you, she was
sore after emptying that corn bin

That fateful evening ended with a kiss.  Not to toot our own horn, but our fist kiss just might be good enough to misplace a different kiss on this list.  At the least, it was good enough to draw protests from a young Fred Savage.  

"The rest", as they say, "is history" as we now progress toward a shared future.

Just cause she has a degree from there
doesn't mean she cheers for those losers

It's gonna be a few years till we celebrate her 40th

Finally, let’s just verbalize what everyone thinks the first time they meet Sarah.  Sarah is a perfect doppelganger to Amy Adams.  The resemblance is uncannily hilarious.  I can't think of anyone else I know, significant other or not, who resembles a celebrity to the degree Sarah resembles Amy Adams.  
Lucky girl.  
Amy Adams, that is.  

Fear, Reality and the Triathlon

“Donnie, you are so filled with fear.  I hurt for you.”

That’s a summary of what my therapist said to me during a session back in August of 2015.  I’ve already written a lot about what I was processing during that season of my life, so no need to rehash all of that.  As I shared in a post back in March, that same therapist challenged me to let go of some new and different, yet equally false, fears that had recently crept into my heart.

In the spirit of open-confession on this blog, I can admit that I’m now facing some new fears. These fears are financial.  While it seems that the worst of these fears won’t come true, some lesser fears are, in fact, becoming a reality.  This is causing me to make some serious changes in my life.  Though the changes are painful, I think the long-term results are going to be a net-positive.

As my therapist could attest, fear is a constant battle I face; the battle to separate wild, outlandish fears from possible scenarios that could happen should circumstances not improve.  As fear is a constant struggle, a sermon I heard a few months ago hit home in a perspective-altering way.

Here’s a link to the message.

This is a paraphrase, but the following is a basic summary of Isaac’s message.

“Fear is a terrible predictor of the future.  We make an initial assumption that ‘A’ is true.  And if ‘A’ is true, then clearly ‘B’ must be true.  Following that line of logic, then, we proceed from ‘B’ to ‘C’ and down the line of events which, inevitably, ends with death.  We go from fearing that ‘A’ is actually true to predicting our own demise.  What fear fails to consider, though is the possibility of God intervening somewhere in that chain of possible scenarios.  Fear is a horrible predictor of future events.”

Later in the sermon, he’s discussing Jesus walking with the disciples on the Road to Emmaus, which is post-suffering and post-resurrection.  Jesus tells his disciples (and therefore us), “if you’re looking for a Jesus to help you circumvent all pain, loss and suffering, that’s not me.  If you’re looking for a Jesus, however who has been through it all and can promise that there’s new life and joy on the other side, that’s me, because I’ve already walked that path.”

A couple of months ago, I accomplished one of my New Year’s Resolutions for 2018, I finished a short triathlon.  This triathlon turned out to be an interesting case study in my struggle with fear.

The afternoon before the race, I went out to the lake to organize my transition area and to check out the course.  As this was about to be my first ever triathlon, I had no idea what to expect nor any previous experience upon which I could draw for navigating all the different variables of an open water swim, followed by a bike ride, capped off by a run.

Here's a list of all the fears I had about that race, starting Saturday afternoon and continuing until I received the “KC Triathlon Finisher” medal

I’d drown
My goggles would get kicked off my face while out in the open water
I’d be embarrassed by my old-school bike
My bike would have mechanical issues and my non-mechanical self wouldn’t know what to do
I wouldn’t make it up the hill at mile 9
My cotton shirt would fill with sweat
I wouldn’t be able to get my wetsuit off during the transition from swimming to biking
My bag would take up too much space in the transition area
I wouldn’t get my transition area set up properly or by 7:00 AM
I wouldn’t get a good picture in my wetsuit
Between swimming warm-ups and the start of the race (1.5 hours later), I’d be too hot in my wetsuit
I’d leave stuff in transition area, which closed at 7, that I’d need before the race
My car would be so far from the beach that I’d sweat like crazy walking there and back in my wetsuit
I’d put my wetsuit on backwards
If I took off my wetsuit, to avoid getting too hot, I wouldn’t be able to get it back on
My legs would be too weak to run after the bike portion
I’d look like an imposter among all the seasoned tri-athletes
I’d have to poop during the race
I’d oversleep

Yeah, that’s a pretty long list…

When the starting buzzer sounded for my “wave” (men 40 and older), my legs felt like jelly and the movement down the sandy beach and toward the lake water felt surreal.  Until I plunged face first into the ice cold water, I wasn’t convinced I’d have the courage to actually start the race.   At the other end of the race, while painfully jogging the last portion under a hot sun, I was never fully convinced I’d finish the race without walking until I actually crossed the finish line.

As I savored the post-race wheat beer, I realize that not a single one of the fears on the above list manifested themselves.  Not a single one.  Though I’m sure it might be riveting writing, I’m going to pass on sharing the details of how I worked through every single one of those challenges.  It will suffice to say though, that I both figured them all out and regretted having wasted so much emotional energy worrying about them.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some other things to go worry about.  Like whether there’s a good spot in my house to display my medal.

Abiding > Calling

I currently have two houses listed, each of whom are being sold by friends of mine who are going through, or have recently gone through, a divorce.  They came to me because they can trust me, having confidence in our shared experience.  If I want to live a life in which I’m serving other people, these are the best moments for me, professionally speaking.  In fact, last year, I sold a house for a ministry colleague with whom I’d shared a similar ministry path.  When I met with him and his ex-wife-to-be, explaining how we could get the house sold and split the proceeds, he thanked me while blinking away tears.  He was grateful for my being able to help him what needed to be done and, most importantly, for being able to stand with him in all the hurt and shame of his divorce.

The flip side looks like the time I was leading a buyer couple into the basement of a nice home in a nice neighborhood and suddenly being hit by a wave of self-pity, “this isn’t what I signed up for, this isn’t why I went to college and seminary.”  It’s not, but it’s where I currently find myself.

As I asked in an earlier post, what happens to the “calling” I believe I had? 
Maybe that question needs to be turned inside-out.  What if I was never “called” into full-time ministry at all?  What if no one is “called” in that way?  I’ll admit, this is a new way of thinking for me, possibly a new way of sorting through the past 25 years.  The idea came from a sermon I recently heard, when I just so happened to be worshiping with my former church because the daughter of the above-mentioned friend was being baptized.  In the midst of a sermon on John 15:1-8, the “I am the vine, you are the branches.  Remain in me and you will produce much fruit” passage, Tim Keel had the following to say.

“How does God’s grace get worked out among us?  By abiding.  I read something from Oswald Chambers this week, who said the following, ‘A Christian worker is someone who perpetually looks in the face of God and then goes forth to talk to people.’  It’s not complex.  We get to know the one we love and it overflows into our lives…. Trees aren’t trying to produce fruit.  Fruit is the natural overflow, the byproduct of an organism in right relationship to its environment.  A tree’s not trying to make fruit happen, a tree can’t stop fruit from happening.  Fruit is the natural overflow of what a tree is created to do.  When we abide in Jesus, fruitfulness is the result of his life getting lived through us.

[In talking often to church leaders, I tell them] the most acceptable form of idolatry in the church is ministry.  People think you’re called to ministry.  You’re not.  You’re called to Jesus.  And to abide in Jesus.  And to help create communities of people who are abiding in Jesus.  Ministry is the overflow of a community that is learning together how to abide and remain in Jesus and to allow God to prune them, together, in their life in Jesus.”

Mind blown. 
Past and future possibly re-interpreted and re-imagined. 

It wasn’t just me, either.  Right after the benediction, I talked with several other members of the “former pastors club” who said that line also took them for a loop. 

It clearly happened.  I certainly served God in the capacity of a pastor for a season in my life.  It was good, rewarding and positive.  While there are certainly things I’d do differently, including some decisions and approaches that now make me cringe, I don’t regret having served in that capacity.

Back then, I had  a much more narrowly defined way of doing ministry.  Things are more wide-open now.  As I now, as then, stay connected to Jesus I'm making an intentional effort to be open to whatever opportunities come my way, opportunities that are almost certainly going to exist outside of any formal structure. 

For example, I was talking on the phone with the twice mentioned seller client and friend when I had the sense that I needed to pray with him.  After I’d finished, he informed me I’d made him cry (I guess I do that to people?) and that he’d needed the encouragement.  The next day, he thanked me yet again for praying for him. 

A similar thing happened just the other day, while helping with Free Hot Soup Johnson County.  After a friend of mine, who has dedicated so much of her life to serving the poor, homeless and addicted shared some struggles she was facing, I sent her a note to say I was praying for her and to remind her that her actions convey to others the love of Jesus. 

While there are some who need to do so, at this stage in my life, I don’t sense the need to hold any type of official church position.  I simply need to stay connected to Jesus and responsive to the opportunities that come my way.

I've Changed the Name of this Blog

As a follow-up to this post, I've now decided to change the title of this blog.  I simply don't think I can refer to myself as a pastor anymore.  Truth be told, I'm completely fine with that.  I try to be sensitive to God's leadership in my life and, as of this moment, I sense that I'm okay where I'm at.

As any reader of this blog would be fully aware, my life took a serious left turn a few years ago.  But even before that, I was curving away from the mainstream in regards to how I lived out my (then) life purpose of pastoral ministry.  As any long-time reader of this blog would be aware, my ministry path continued to take one step after another away from traditional approaches to ministry and toward bolder and less secure approaches.  As I kept reaching for more innovative and risky ways to serve, the ability to actually early a living at ministry gradually faded away.  Eventually, in regards to pastoral ministry as a career, I found myself on the outside-looking-in.  Again, I'm totally cool with that.  In fact, I'd likely make the same choices again, were I given a second chance.  In the spring of 2016, when I realized my connection to the inner-city church by our home wasn't going to work out and that I wasn't willing to drive out of the city to be a part of a healthy church within my denomination, I turned in my ordination credentials due to inactivity.  Of course, I was also pretty sure a divorce was approaching over the horizon, so I preferred to face that life change without the pressures of denominational expectations.

My peace with where I currently find myself, however doesn't nullify the sense of bewilderment and disillusionment that comes with experiencing such a dramatic shift in purpose and identity.  I started preparing for pastoral ministry at the age of 16.  I went to college for it.  Then seminary.  I chose a wife based, partly, upon our compatibility as ministry partners.  All of that has changed, however and I'm now in the process of forging a new identity and purpose.  Hopefully, it's an identity shaped less around what I do and more around who I am, as His kid.

It's pointless to lament the past.  It's worthwhile to be faithful in the present.  To fully embrace where I am at this moment.  I'm learning the benefit of taking a long view of things; a long obedience over a lifetime.  Hence the new name of my blog, which is actually a play upon the title of a book by Eugene Peterson.

I've found an amazing church.  I'm not too involved yet, but I'll slowly wiggle myself into the community and shared mission.  The church is pastored by a friend from seminary and, even better, two families that both Dawson and I count as some of our closest friends are a part of this church.

I've recently connected with Free Hot Soup Johnson County, which serves food to homeless people on Monday nights at a park a few blocks from my place.

In just about every way other than finances, as I'm still digging out of a bit of a hole while trying to expand my client base, I've almost completely recovered from the trauma of the divorce.  I was having a beer with a close friend the other night when he came to the exact same conclusion.  If anyone would be able to recognize whether or not I've recovered, it's this friend, whom I've known for decades and with whom I went on a significant roadtrip several years ago; a trip in which my dark cloud of despair and hopelessness was the third passenger in his SUV.  He turned to me and said, "It's good to see you laugh.  You seem to be back to your old self again."

In some ways he's right.  In other ways, a new self has emerged.  I assume that's normal for anyone as they progress through life (have I mentioned I turn 40 in just over two months?) but even more so for someone who experiences a dramatic life change. 

Even as something new emerges, a constant to which I still turn is words; my ability to express myself in ways that often helps other people.  Just the other day, I was at a happy hour with a 23 year old guy who played football and performed in show choir at a rival high school, though we just missed being competitors by a mere two decades... Anyway, this single kid young man told me he'd recently read my blog and really appreciated what I'd shared, both the content and the vulnerability.  I'd assume that if my words can help him, someone in a completely different stage of life than am I, then surely they can help others facing similar struggles. 

In fact, that's why I started blogging about this post-divorce journey in the first place, so my words could bring healing to others while simultaneously bringing healing to myself.  I'm writing what I wish I could've read three years ago, while struggling to breathe from all the pain and loss and shame.  I would've loved to have heard from someone whose marriage had died but whose relationship with God and with most of his friends survived. 

So maybe this amateur blogger turns into an amateur writer, as in a book about my divorce and recovery.  To the delight of my sister, who's been encouraging me to do this, I've put together a preliminary chapter outline.  Maybe it becomes the major project of my first year in a new decade of life.  Stay tuned...

Finally, I'll admit that ministry (as in a staff position at a church or other ministry) isn't totally out of the question.  I'm positive, though that I could never again assume the role of a traditional pastor, that's simply not going to happen, for various reasons.  I also know it would be in a different denomination than in which I grew up.  A few years ago, at the prompting of the pastor, I interviewed for a position with a Methodist church.  During the interview, I thought it wise to be honest with the pastor interviewing me about my marriage existing in a rocky and unsure place.  In response to my honesty, the pastor offered some reassurance by stating that while he'd  never been involved with a Church of the Nazarene (having spent all of his post-conversion years in the Methodist Church)  he spoke from his experience with Nazarene friends in stating, "Methodists seem to be more accepting of their pastor's humanity, as a rule, than are Nazarenes." 

Imperfection.  Humanity.  Yep, that's me all right.  Here's to my spending this human life living out a long obedience in (mostly) the same direction.

So I Try to Play the Piano

I took piano lessons from first grade up till it just fizzled out sometime during my junior year of high school.  My late piano teacher was also my Bible Quizzing coach (and pastor's wife) and she said I could be forgiven for letting piano slide since I was memorizing so many Bible verses.

So I had a rather prolonged break from piano, lasting from around 1994 till the summer of 2016, when I bought Dawson a keyboard so he could start his own lessons.  The first song of which I downloaded the sheet music was "Sur le fil" from the "Amelie" soundtrack, which might be the most amazing soundtrack in the known world.  Enjoy.  As a side note, one of my favorite things to do on this planet is to wander through the Northern arrondissements of Paris where "Amelie" was filmed while listening to the soundtrack, highlighted by a walk through the energetic and colorful  Gare du nord.  Paris, tu me manque, but I digress...

In case you're wondering... sitting down at a keyboard again, after 22 years, is a bit more complicated than remembering how to ride a bike.  I had to Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and FACE for awhile, but it did eventually come back to me.  Now, it's one of the great pleasures in my life, challenging yet rewarding, difficult yet therapeutic.  Here are a few of the songs I've managed to record, along with some explanations and apologies.  It took me a couple of months to become even partly proficient at that "you've gotta be kidding me, that's fast" section toward the end.





The videos aren't quite embedding correctly, so I'll share the actual links, too.
Video

This next video really shows the top end, as well as the limits, of my piano playing ability.  I've never been one who can play a piece perfectly.  I guess I just lack the finger dexterity.  90% proficiency is usually the best I can manage.  While I simply can't avoid mistakes, I'm at least creative in finding new ones to make each time I play a song, the exact same song, mind you.  I also get a bit nervous playing for a camera, which is evident in this video.  I'm copying in some advice from a good friend who is both a concert pianist and a travelling ninja.  I've had moments in which I've played with the joyful abandon Denise describes below, but certainly never in front of a camera.

 "...Another thing I'd say is to just play, worry less about making mistakes :) Hard to do I know.  But sometimes if you just go with it, amazing things will happen. Remember, Robert Schumann said "When you play, never mind who listens to you." Beethoven said "to play a wrong note is insignificant. To play without passion is inexcusable." Of course, another interpretation is that "to play a wrong timidly is a mistake. To play a wrong note with authority is an interpretation." :) Don't remember who said that but I like it."




Video

"And now for something completely different."  Pop music

It's amazing how much more difficult it is to play pop music than classical music.

I'm slightly hesitant to share this one for several reasons.  First of all, it's not great, not at all.  I was able to get a few parts down but I could never get the timing right in certain sections, particularly on the bridge.  I eventually got tired of working on it, though and wanted to get it recorded so I could move on, which I did, actually throwing the sheet music in the recycling and washing my hands of the song.
Which leads to the other reason this song isn't great to share, it was meant to be a birthday present but it never got delivered to the intended recipient.  Just as an interaction with that Intended Recipient prompted me to do some writing on this blog, another brief interaction with said Intended Recipient prompted me to work on this song.  It's as if some emotions were working themselves from my heart, through my arms, out my fingers and eventually into the previously mentioned recycling bin.
I made the video, though, so I might as well share it.




Video

The good thing about the above video is that the little bit of singing I actually do in the video resides much more in my vocal sweet spot than the next video I'm going to share.  I'm going to share it anyway, though as it's one of my all-time favorite songs, even if it pushes (let's be honest, it exceeds) my vocal range.

The particular arrangement I'm going to play comes from the musical Moulin Rouge but the actual song predates that musical by several decades.  I don't know of any other song that captures the aching beauty one experiences while wandering Montmartre late at night.  Or maybe in a broader sense, it captures the maddening pleasure of a city that (to paraphrase another old French songwriter) is like a lover who tantalizes you while you're in her presence but forgets your face as soon as you leave.  But there I go again, missing Paris...

Maybe it's my voice cracking or the lack of an accordion but my playing of this song won't illicit anything near to the depth of feeling brought out by the original.  Nonetheless, I still greatly enjoyed learning this song as it's the first song I've been able to both play and sing. 

Also, I apologize if my introducing the song in French comes off as pretentious (is it ever possible to speak French and not come off as pretentious?), but I couldn't resist.



Video

Finally, please allow me to be a braggy dad for a minute.  My son is quite the piano player, when I can actually get him to practice.  He has a musical ear that I simply don't have.  Not only can he play a song by ear after just a few tries, he even composes his own short songs.  Of course, that's no surprise, as his biological uncle is a recording artist and his biological grandma is herself a piano teacher.  Dawson fights me on piano but he's too talented for me to let him quit when he's this young.  As the parents of my above mentioned concert pianist friend would tell her as a child, "no adult regrets being made to learn piano as a child."



Video



Video