Forty Eight and Seventy One

On May 29th, 1977 (which was the marking of my twenty third birthday), one of the most astounding presents was placed before me: the birth of my first son, whom we named Nathan Paul.  

Almost from the start, Nathan displayed an aptitude for music that was uncanny.  He started out on violin, but quickly switched from Suzuki to something that, in his estimation, was much "cooler."  He chose the trumpet, and from grade school on that hunk of plumbing was his constant companion.  

It accompanied him every morning to zero hour, when he would wait for the school bus on a cold northern Indiana street corner (note: at an ungodly time, before the winter sun came up). It accompanied him to summer band camps across the midwest.  It accompanied him when he won the Thompson Scholarship to Interlochen Arts camp (and a subsequent helping hand to IU Bloomington for a Bachelor's performance degree).  Eventually, it accompanied him to New York City, where my eldest earned both a Master's in Music (at Manhattan School of Music) and a Doctorate in Performance (at Stony Brook, Long Island).  

But also along the way, it also accompanied him to St. Mark's Catholic Church, way up in Harlem, where my son decided to "give back" to an exceptional educational and musical environment, locked in one of the more challenging parts of New York City (the parish and school were founded at the dawn of the twentieth century by St. Katharine Drexel).  The pay had nothing to do with it.  And it was about forty blocks from where he lived.  

This past week, on our shared birthday, family members gathered in Knoxville, Tennessee:  Nathan was the sole brass player for the broadway musical Back to the Future.  Watching him navigate a highly technical show (with less than a dozen in the pit orchestra) made this father incredibly proud.  And while the show was completely absorbing (yes, and a ton of fun – thank you Michael J. Fox, Christopher Lloyd and Lea Thompson, for the original movie!), before the curtain was raised I found myself looking back, in my mind, through the pages of all those years, all those road trips, all those band camps, all that music, all those performances.

Years earlier, Nathan and I had the chance to offer a duet for Christmas Eve at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart at Notre Dame.  We played O Holy Night;  I was on the Celtic harp; my son played next to me in the sanctuary.  This past Christmas, we recorded that piece, for old time's sake, as a Yuletide gift for his wife, Jaclyn.  It was one of several meaningful collaborations through the years.  

Parents, don't let anyone tell you that music lessons, band camps, or degrees in music are a waste of time, an ordeal that leads to membership in the starving artist's club.  Of course it takes dedication – years and years of it.  But to see the remarkable gift that musicians give to the world: such a gift is beyond price.  

So Nathan, here's to you, my son. For all those winter mornings, all those endless miles on the way to lessons, all those years in New York City putting one foot in front of the next, one step away from busking on the streets.  You know how much I admire all you have done for the betterment of this world.  This little testimonial is but a fraction of what could be said about how you are walking and working and playing your way through life.  

Roads?  Where you are going, my dear eldest, you don't need roads.  You just keep that trumpet close to your heart.  

And Now, Four Years Later....

Two weeks from now, my wife Michele and I will be heading back to a land we knew so well: the green fields of Ireland.  Four years ago, in the summer of 2021, it was time to start another chapter – close the book on so many memorable years with the University of Notre Dame, choose a new community in the United States, and make the journey westward across the Atlantic.  

Five years earlier, in 2016, we likewise closed another chapter: more than thirty-five years on the campus of Our Lady. But that time, we were headed eastward: we had sold most of our earthly goods in order to accept the University's invitation to move to Dublin.

One of the great theologians on our campus, the late John Dunne, c.s.c., gave a lecture years ago on the meaning of Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken.  Father Dunne's point was that, in contrast to the poem's message (that perhaps roads will never join up again), mysticism teaches that oftentimes the roads do converge, leading us back once again to places that still live on in our heart.

Dublin's Newman University Church does, indeed, live on in our hearts, as do the people whose nuptials we'll be witnessing.  Dominique Cunningham, who took over my position as Associate Director of Music and Liturgy, and Katherine Dunn, who is in Director of Information Technology and Communication (both of whom are doing outstanding jobs!) will be married a month apart at the beloved church that we called home for five years.  

Paths will converge again.  Voices joined in song will be raised again.  Stories of endurance through a global pandemic, a journey to Rome (John Henry Newman was canonized while we were there), and musical and liturgical moments through the years will be flowing like wedding wine.  

When we concluded our chapter in Ireland in 2021, the pandemic was still a reality in Ireland.  Churches were just barely beginning to host people for public prayer again.  But saying good-bye to many of our friends, particularly those in places like Connemara, Kylemore Abbey, Galway, and Kilkenny – all of these had to be saved for a later day.  And soon, that day will be upon us!  Part of this blog will be devoted to a travelogue of our journey back to Ireland, reconnecting with friends – some of whom we've known since 1987.  

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.  And yes, we took the one less traveled by.  But roads (and friendships) do converge again.  Hands and hearts and voices rejoin, just a bit around the bend....

Return of the Pilgrim

It has been a good few years since the ND Guitar Pilgrim has been added to.  Transitioning from Ireland back to the United States, settling into a new hometown, recovering from a global pandemic and facing the worst storm in recorded history of Western North Carolina has proved to be something of an endeavor.

But we have a new home in the mountains.  Our Irish friends would ask "Are ye settled?"  And now, unequivocally, we can say "Yes."

Much has taken place, personally and professionally, since our move to the Appalachian Mountains.  I continue to write for GIA/WLP (I just had a new piece accepted by GIA, a new anthem setting of the traditional hymn Abide With Me); Michele and I have contributed to The Liturgical Press, and right now I'm crafting musical commentary for Liturgy Training Publications.  

Most of you know that I'm now the Director of Music for St. James Episcopal Church in Black Mountain, North Carolina.  (I'll write more about this in the future).  But as I did back in 2012, Michele and I will be headed over to Europe for five weeks (Weddings! Connemara! River cruise! Notre Dame de Paris!).  So a travelogue is about to begin again.

Stay tuned.... this site is back in business!