The Pinned Butterfly
Last Sunday morning, I put on my Touring Choir dress for the last time. I sentimentally felt the slick black fabric that hugged my shoulders and arms. I clasped my pearls around my neck where they lay coldly until they warmed against my skin. I asked Erin Hostetler to tie the knot specific to EMHS Touring Choir in the back of my dress for the last time, something I still after two and a half years never bothered to learn. I walked into the choir room and saw Jared Stutzman's slanted, cramped scrawl on the board,
After struggling a long time wondering how to reconcile reason with emotions, I've found the line between them very blurred. I'm not the emotional type, and would rarely be able to muster tears for significant performances. Not that I was oblivious to the importance of emotional events, and not that I didn't want the surges of feelings that my friends had, it just wasn't something that came naturally. Over the summer as we sat on a cobbled beach in England watching the restless waves, Jared explained to me his own analytical view. In some languages there is no difference between "think" and "feel". Thoughts lead to emotion; emotions can affect our thinking process. Everything is interconnected. If you KNOW something but don't have the overwhelming response, the importance is then by no means lost to you. Analysis is no less nobler a path than the romanticized roller coaster of the feelers. Now as I processed my lasts, and looked around at the faces I loved of whom I knew I would no longer be able connect with in this way, I was filled with a wonderfully aching sorrow. I knew what I wanted to feel, and I did.
We sang, the specific notes and solfege now long lost to conscious memory, but the music flowing out of us without thought. It felt good to sing again, even just the sensation of breath rushing to my lungs, the vibrating sound filling my mouth, the consonants bursting on my lips. There was also an intensity in the music that just doesn't exist in everyday worship, the deep understanding of the chords, dynamics, text and rhythm combined with bodily intensity of engaged core, solid stance, strong breaths, focused expression and hands that secretly moved with the dynamic line hidden behind the person in front of me. And then there was the whole group of us, laughing and hugging, holding hands and chatting between songs in rehearsal like we shouldn't but always do. I felt like I belonged.
In the concert, the songs passed by, and on the last note of Benediction I understood that this was the last I would ever sing in this group. I looked around again at my friends and began to cry. It was over, and it hadn't seemed long enough.
We all had missed each other, all agreeing that this group had been something special both musically and emotionally, something that was hard to find elsewhere. And while we were all so happy to be back for this, some people had an easier time leaving. People joked about not seeing other until our five year reunion, many it seemed left untouched by the memories that must have surfaced in their minds.
I didn't want to see Touring Choir go; I wanted to soak in all of the emotional significance that was left, enjoy this all one last time, and I did. I came home to Johnstown on a Touring Choir high, the songs turning over and over in my mind, my voice craving to sing, thoughts of my dear friends close at hand. I was surprised at how happy I was to see the unit again though, and even more surprised by how much they had missed me. Johnstown has nearly become a second home, and I am now caught between the two.
I eagerly related my weekend adventures, the joys and sorrows, and tried to explain how significant this great last had been, yet couldn't quite. Jared once eloquently compared Tour to a butterfly. When we record, we kill the butterfly and pin it to a wall which though preserves it, reduces it to its shell devoid of the life that made it magical. Now, I show my unit the dead, pinned butterfly and I alone can remember how beautiful it was when it flew. They couldn't comprehend it in full, and how could they? The wings don't shimmer under the glass. Though they have listened to my long explanations about the choir, the community, the tours, the music heritage, and met my friends, walked in my school, and now they will also listen to the recordings of our whole repertoire (with commentary by me), how can I expect them feel what I feel? I cannot make them fully aware of every hour that went into each song, the feeling of my voice rippling into a cathedral hall, the jokes shared around, the long road to making the songs sound acceptable, the devotions that we had before programs, the accumulated knowledge of choral performance technique, and every prayer that we ever prayed in a circle holding hands (waffle style exclusively).
No, they can't understand and I also know that even if they could, it would not slake my longing for Tour; the butterfly will never fly again.
As the time stretches between me and our last program, my feelings subside as I'm caught up in the minutiae of unit life and the goings-ons of Johnstown, but I'm desperately trying to hold on to this last bit of Tour before the memories fade. I don't want to let go.
Letting go, however, is necessary. Even as I was crying on the shoulders of my equally emotional friends, I told myself, "Everything good has to end, you have to move on, you have to give this up". New things will grow in the place of old; I can already feel this with Service Adventure. By the end of my term, how much also will I love all of the unit? I will probably cry again. And I must move on! I want to do great things and love so many people! I pray that I will be able to a part of many communities, be able to hold on the Christ then nothing else.
By talking to people, I can see what they haven't let go of. Everyone in the unit has their sacred memories, and they're what comes up in the stories we tell. When we were visiting with elderly ladies last week, it was obvious in the way they spoke that they still placed so much of their identity in the past that they hadn't let go of. We heard about their occupations long abandoned, colleges from distant past, travel experiences, and old dance moves and music. Bogged down by their many rich experiences, it was hard for them to see past themselves and the many years now left behind that they couldn't forget. I had much to learn from their stories and perspectives, but I didn't want to be so focused on the past like them so that I couldn't learn to love new things.
I admire persons who can live a transient lifestyle, those who can leave things behind, moving from place to place learning things along the way, being able to be open to new communities. Often, I imagine a world church not tied down by earthly investment, but willing to disperse across the world where God is not represented and love people that may not be easy to love. How many more lives could be touched? How much deeper would our understanding of a global God would be? And yet, I am such a homebody. I love my comfortable house with a comfortable community with my comfortable things and comfortable standard of living and comfortable world view. Leaving is so hard. Letting go is so hard.
I have difficulty even saying goodbye to a high school choir, and now I'm longing for it. Though it fades every hour, I am hungry for the EMHS Touring Choir community. The memory of the feeling hangs in my mind. The longing is the only thing I have left from the Touring Choir experience.
I do not think back fondly on all things about Tour, the frustration at technical limitations, the exhaustion and physical strain, the social stress and the many mundane days, but the things I loved about it must have been God at work. I saw the community, the beauty of music, the service of showing people that beauty, the joy of work well done. Really what I am yearning for is that essence of divinity revealed in that way.
I like to think that everything that we cherish about this Earth is really just a shadow of God's glory that is fully realized in heaven. James wrote, "Every good and perfect gift is from above," (James 1:17) which only makes sense since our God is a god of ultimate love and of all Creation. All the goodness we've experienced is what remains of the shalom of Eden, the shalom that will be reconciled in heaven. C.S. Lewis says it well in The Last Battle, when the characters reach new Narnia (the metaphor for heaven) that "The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this." All that we love in this world is just a taste of heaven.
Of course, Tour is not the only thing I have had to leave. In my mind, I've stashed the memories of the Discovery trip, many years of Highland (including SIT), Mennonite conventions, Envi Sci class Bay trips, my dating relationship, family Christmases and vacations, my years at EMHS, etc.... all dry butterflies with brittle, dull wings. And at times I long for them and remember with friends or with my journal all the goodness that is passed.
Learning to be okay with letting go of all this frees me to follow God's call all over the world. In every community I can learn to see things in new ways, and with every new taste of the goodness that heralds God's coming glory I will have more to remember. My mind will be filled with visions of iridescent butterfly wings. Eventually, all of my yearnings will coalesce into a picture, and I will see that all of my longing has always been directed towards how I have witnessed God in my life and I will understand then what it is to long for a heavenly home where dazzling butterflies whirl in the divine light forever.
As of right now, I can not fully imagine all this, and I am overcome with nostalgia for Touring Choir; I must remember but not hold on too tightly, letting something new grow in its place, and know that someday, I will see be able to sing forever in a choir of which Tour is only a shadow.
Touring ChoirThis was the last time it would be for me. Even as our school year ended last spring, we still knew we would be together over the summer tour, and even when that ended, there was always the Homecoming concert when we could all come back and sing our songs together once more. There would be nothing left after this day.
Take a chair
Sit in a circle
 |
| Reunited though missing a few |
After struggling a long time wondering how to reconcile reason with emotions, I've found the line between them very blurred. I'm not the emotional type, and would rarely be able to muster tears for significant performances. Not that I was oblivious to the importance of emotional events, and not that I didn't want the surges of feelings that my friends had, it just wasn't something that came naturally. Over the summer as we sat on a cobbled beach in England watching the restless waves, Jared explained to me his own analytical view. In some languages there is no difference between "think" and "feel". Thoughts lead to emotion; emotions can affect our thinking process. Everything is interconnected. If you KNOW something but don't have the overwhelming response, the importance is then by no means lost to you. Analysis is no less nobler a path than the romanticized roller coaster of the feelers. Now as I processed my lasts, and looked around at the faces I loved of whom I knew I would no longer be able connect with in this way, I was filled with a wonderfully aching sorrow. I knew what I wanted to feel, and I did.
We sang, the specific notes and solfege now long lost to conscious memory, but the music flowing out of us without thought. It felt good to sing again, even just the sensation of breath rushing to my lungs, the vibrating sound filling my mouth, the consonants bursting on my lips. There was also an intensity in the music that just doesn't exist in everyday worship, the deep understanding of the chords, dynamics, text and rhythm combined with bodily intensity of engaged core, solid stance, strong breaths, focused expression and hands that secretly moved with the dynamic line hidden behind the person in front of me. And then there was the whole group of us, laughing and hugging, holding hands and chatting between songs in rehearsal like we shouldn't but always do. I felt like I belonged.
In the concert, the songs passed by, and on the last note of Benediction I understood that this was the last I would ever sing in this group. I looked around again at my friends and began to cry. It was over, and it hadn't seemed long enough.
 |
| After our last official program in England. This is not a staged photo. Photo Cred: Stephen Lowe |
We all had missed each other, all agreeing that this group had been something special both musically and emotionally, something that was hard to find elsewhere. And while we were all so happy to be back for this, some people had an easier time leaving. People joked about not seeing other until our five year reunion, many it seemed left untouched by the memories that must have surfaced in their minds.
I didn't want to see Touring Choir go; I wanted to soak in all of the emotional significance that was left, enjoy this all one last time, and I did. I came home to Johnstown on a Touring Choir high, the songs turning over and over in my mind, my voice craving to sing, thoughts of my dear friends close at hand. I was surprised at how happy I was to see the unit again though, and even more surprised by how much they had missed me. Johnstown has nearly become a second home, and I am now caught between the two.
I eagerly related my weekend adventures, the joys and sorrows, and tried to explain how significant this great last had been, yet couldn't quite. Jared once eloquently compared Tour to a butterfly. When we record, we kill the butterfly and pin it to a wall which though preserves it, reduces it to its shell devoid of the life that made it magical. Now, I show my unit the dead, pinned butterfly and I alone can remember how beautiful it was when it flew. They couldn't comprehend it in full, and how could they? The wings don't shimmer under the glass. Though they have listened to my long explanations about the choir, the community, the tours, the music heritage, and met my friends, walked in my school, and now they will also listen to the recordings of our whole repertoire (with commentary by me), how can I expect them feel what I feel? I cannot make them fully aware of every hour that went into each song, the feeling of my voice rippling into a cathedral hall, the jokes shared around, the long road to making the songs sound acceptable, the devotions that we had before programs, the accumulated knowledge of choral performance technique, and every prayer that we ever prayed in a circle holding hands (waffle style exclusively).
 |
| Mr. Stutzman and I after the Sunday program. |
As the time stretches between me and our last program, my feelings subside as I'm caught up in the minutiae of unit life and the goings-ons of Johnstown, but I'm desperately trying to hold on to this last bit of Tour before the memories fade. I don't want to let go.
Letting go, however, is necessary. Even as I was crying on the shoulders of my equally emotional friends, I told myself, "Everything good has to end, you have to move on, you have to give this up". New things will grow in the place of old; I can already feel this with Service Adventure. By the end of my term, how much also will I love all of the unit? I will probably cry again. And I must move on! I want to do great things and love so many people! I pray that I will be able to a part of many communities, be able to hold on the Christ then nothing else.
 |
| Salisbury Cathedral, a place so beautiful I actually took a picture. |
I admire persons who can live a transient lifestyle, those who can leave things behind, moving from place to place learning things along the way, being able to be open to new communities. Often, I imagine a world church not tied down by earthly investment, but willing to disperse across the world where God is not represented and love people that may not be easy to love. How many more lives could be touched? How much deeper would our understanding of a global God would be? And yet, I am such a homebody. I love my comfortable house with a comfortable community with my comfortable things and comfortable standard of living and comfortable world view. Leaving is so hard. Letting go is so hard.
I have difficulty even saying goodbye to a high school choir, and now I'm longing for it. Though it fades every hour, I am hungry for the EMHS Touring Choir community. The memory of the feeling hangs in my mind. The longing is the only thing I have left from the Touring Choir experience.
I do not think back fondly on all things about Tour, the frustration at technical limitations, the exhaustion and physical strain, the social stress and the many mundane days, but the things I loved about it must have been God at work. I saw the community, the beauty of music, the service of showing people that beauty, the joy of work well done. Really what I am yearning for is that essence of divinity revealed in that way.
 |
| Me, Sidney and Bailey this weekend. |
Learning to be okay with letting go of all this frees me to follow God's call all over the world. In every community I can learn to see things in new ways, and with every new taste of the goodness that heralds God's coming glory I will have more to remember. My mind will be filled with visions of iridescent butterfly wings. Eventually, all of my yearnings will coalesce into a picture, and I will see that all of my longing has always been directed towards how I have witnessed God in my life and I will understand then what it is to long for a heavenly home where dazzling butterflies whirl in the divine light forever.
 |
| The sun setting over the church of our last program as Tour members walk through the sheep pasture. |
As of right now, I can not fully imagine all this, and I am overcome with nostalgia for Touring Choir; I must remember but not hold on too tightly, letting something new grow in its place, and know that someday, I will see be able to sing forever in a choir of which Tour is only a shadow.
"Through all the length of days thy goodness faileth never. Good Shepherd may I sing thy praise within thy house forever."
-The King of Love, Touring Choir 2016
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