“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Most kids give the standard gender based answers, with the few creative kids popping out alternative ideas making the question more of a study of how they see life rather than what they want to be doing when they get paid for their work.

Somewhere along the way, the question changes, either from the outside or from our own spirits begging us, “Why am I here?”

“What is my purpose?”

“What is my calling?”

When I was in the church, the word “calling” was a big one. It wasn’t just what you were good at or what you enjoyed, but it was what God had gifted you to do so that you could in turn serve Him and His people. I thought I had it signed, sealed and delivered.

Music.

And how did I come to the point of thinking that music leadership might be my calling?

Because I was one of the lucky ones who was lead by amazing musicians who definitely found their calling early on in their lives. They weren’t just doing their job, expanding a hobby, bringing home the bacon, no, these men were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing, what they loved to do and what they expertly inspired others to do.

Two of those men of which I speak crashed together last weekend at my mother-in-law’s visitation. I expected to see one man, as he was a member of our home church, but the other, my high school band director, was a major surprise. He had both my brother-in-law and me in band years ago. I’m not sure if that’s what brought him out or not, but there he was, walking into the funeral home right behind Wes Orr. Wes being my godfather, my private trumpet instructor, the man who kicked my ass so hard I couldn’t HELP but blast out power notes on my horn. He taught me about talent via bible passages and how if you have them, you’re not to waste them. He taught me breath control and diaphragmatic support. He taught me to not just be a girl who played the trumpet, but to be a musician.

What did my high school band director teach me? To just “do it” – long before Nike ever used the slogan. There were no excuses to failure, you just shut up and did the job. He taught me a gentle touch with my instrument; he taught me a command of my instrument. He taught me how to breathe so I could march and play without sounding like I was doing so on a washing machine. He taught me to duck walk for my bra that had been strung up the flagpole by the seniors at band camp…and to do it with as much pride as I could possibly muster. He taught me to work hard, play hard, laugh hard and most importantly, to demand nothing but the absolute best of myself and those around me. He taught me to not just be a girl who played the trumpet, but to be a musician.

There was a third man who shaped me as a musician and I tell you, had he walked into that funeral home, poor Alex would not only be mourning his mother right now, but he’d be mourning his wife as well. As it was, my head almost exploded from the awesome all in one room. I’ll save my choir director for another post another day.

Anywhoodle, these men arrived at the same time, not together, and then…they did something even more amazing.

They TALKED to each other! *gasp* I know!!!!

And I, being the fully evolved adult that I am, stood just far enough away from them that I could gawk and stare and let saliva drip from my open mouth as they talked about whatever it is they were talking about. I’m sure it had to have been about their time together during creation when they collaborated and designed the trumpet and then spiritually guided every composer hence to write music to accentuate the beauty of that brass instrument.

Or, you know, they could have been talking about the Burger King dinner they had before coming to the funeral home. I wasn’t close enough to hear because I couldn’t let them see my drool. Seriously, how embarrassing would that have been!? Besides, who wants to humanize the gods of your life by smelling onion breath anyway?

So, I stared and my children noticed my haze and tried to pull me from it, but instead were trapped by one of those [teenage whine] Mom Lectures [/teenage whine] about who these two men were and why I was wondering if we’d need to get my heart resuscitated in the near future. They politely listened and in short time, were personally enamored with Mr Nawrocki, my high school band director. They already knew Mr. Orr and passed their “Is Mom crazy, or is this guy cool?” test.

Nawrocki passed with flying colors. Of course. I left him alone with them because as those of you who know him – he is a TALKER!! Oh my goodness.

There is a point to this, trust me. My point is this. These men knew their calling. They found it, embraced it, ran with it, excelled at it and passed the baton on to numerous other band directors, music directors, professors, studio musicians and the like through their expert teaching. I planned to follow suit, choosing voice as my instrument (for reasons I cannot explain, although I’d love to be able to) and headed off to college to be the next DanOrrThrower. Or, something.

But…the best laid plans of mice and men…and all that jazz. Things got bumbled and jumbled and I lead in the church which felt right, but the bumbling and jumbling only got bumblier and jumblier and here I sit, 44 years old and I’m asking myself all over again…

What is my calling?

And I don’t have an answer.

And I’m so bloody envious of those two men. Those two men who primed me and prepared me and shaped me to be what they were to me to someone else…and somehow…it didn’t happen.

Yet, I sit one on one with various young people…my kids, my son-in-love, my kids’ friends, students in the churches I led and I feel a sense of peace I cannot explain. When I’m teaching them and talking to them one on one, either about music or about life, I feel like something supernatural is happening. I can speak their language without (I hope) sounding like an old fart trying desperately to be cool. I come up with magical analogies to help conquer musical mountains they’re struggling to climb. Just this evening, my son was working on his trumpet audition music for concert season and his pitch and tone were mushy. He wasn’t quite hearing it or seeing what I meant so I said, “Your sound is a bit like a water bed at the moment. You need a firm mattress.” I walked out, he played again and voila – his intonation and tone crisped up and settled into one place. Perfect? Nope, not yet. But better.

I’m good at that, taking an intangible concept and make it feel like you can touch it and reshape it. But the logistics of going back are insane. The anxieties are 15 more blog posts long. The expense of re-certifying is out of our reach. My reasons are innumerable…not all of them valid.

Is it my calling?

Do I have one?

How do you know?

Aren’t you supposed to have this all figured out by the time you hit 40?

Why can’t Nawrocki and Wes just tell me a story and put it all into perspective for me again?

What IS my calling?

What is yours?

Everyone has their Michael Jackson stories. Their memories. The moments where his music became the soundtrack of their lives or at the least, the soundtrack of a momentous event in their lives. And, I have a few of my own, going clear back to the early 70′s, when I was a young girl in elementary school. Like most 6 year olds, I loved cartoons and one I truly loved was The Jackson 5ive cartoon. In looking back at it, it was campy and silly and…well, cartoony. The styles of the times were exaggerated, the music was bouncy and Michael, even in cartoon form was DREAMY! And…keep this part quiet now…he was black! And, I instantly stopped caring about skin color.

Like most of us in the 70′s, I followed his music with his brothers, choosing which was my favorite, dancing in my room with the door closed and the hairbrush up to my lips in dreams of one day taking the stage myself. Even more fun were the times that the chosen teen of the times would be over to babysit me and we’d stand at our kitchen window, a wide picture window that opened to the backyard and sing to the “audience” out in the yard. Sometimes we were Tony Orlando & Dawn (I was so good, I was all three voices of Dawn. At the same time!), sometimes we were Donnie and Marie, and sometimes, we were The Jacksons. They all had variety shows at the time and were to me what the Disney stars are to kids now. Only, you know, they had talent. [/snark]

Those afternoons at my kitchen window were, unbeknownst to me, building a love of performing, of singing, of disappearing in the music to a place where I didn’t have to clean my room, my Grandpa wasn’t dead (he was always in the audience, don’t you know) and my mom and dad weren’t going from together to separated to together every time the wind shifted directions. (They stopped at “together”, thank the heavens.) I learned that happiness was in the music. That unity was in the music. That fun and joy and pleasure and yes, even admiration from minions, was all in the music.

Michael broke from his brothers and I loyally followed, even though the stage at the kitchen window eventually went permanently black – I aged and found the idea of singing in front of a window a bit odd. The idea of a stage was still cool, though and I eventually found it in high school and young adulthood. In the mean time, I simply enjoyed Michael’s music. The way it made me want to move – who hasn’t tried the Moonwalk finding it’s only possible on a smooth surface with stocking feet? I enjoyed the way he commanded his craft. The way an entire room of gloomy teenagers would light up when his music filled a gymnasium at those dreaded school dances. We lit up, we moved, we danced, we flirted. We learned about love and crushes and kisses and that as girls, our heads could sometimes fit perfectly into the chests of men that we liked. Even…black ones for white girls!!! Scandalous! I wonder now, was my massive crush on Eddie a reflection of my crush on Michael Jackson? Eddie moved like Michael. His hair was big and expansive like Michael’s. He was kind and funny as I imagined Michael was in those days. I’ll probably never know, but I do know this. Because of Michael Jackson, Eddie wasn’t one of the few black kids in our school; he was just another boy. One who caught my eye and made my heart flutter. One whose chest was the perfect resting place for my head when slow dancing. I never cared that he was black.

Michael’s music continued to blow up all the way through high school and into college. I had committed my life to music and it was a thrill to have such a talent in the pop world be able to take me from the occasional monotony of classical music and opera. I never lost my love of pop music. Or, of Michael Jackson.

Sadly, Michael lost himself in the midst of it all. There is no question that the man ended up with serious mental issues. His reclusive nature went from eccentric to downright ill. It has been a sad, sad, scary and yes, disappointing sight to see all of these years. The dangling baby, the messed up plastic surgeries, the skin fading, the obsession with fantasy as his reality. And yes, the relationships with children. Was he ever inappropriate? I don’t know. I had my assumptions and I grieved the loss of the King of Pop even then. His few attempts to come back to the scene were never completely successful and it was obvious that the fame had killed his spirit and his sanity.

But, it never took away what he had been to me. To his fans. To the world. He was passionate in everything, even in error. He changed the music scene in a permanent way that few ever will. He’s my generation’s Elvis – who also didn’t go down with much dignity left. We kill our celebrities in our obsessions over them. It’s an embarrassing fact. Somewhere in our thrill of celebrity, we forget the human inside of it all.

Which, leads me to the risky part. I have been appalled at some of the responses to his death. I expect kids of my children’s generation to just not quite “get it”. They have only known the “crazy Michael”. He’s that oddball, weirdo dude who fondles children, has a removable nose and Mom and Dad swear was a legend of his time. What. EVER. But yet, that generation, while shilling out the occasional tasteless joke, has been amazingly respectful. My son has slipped some Michael Jackson onto his iPod to accompany his taste for Slipknot and Kamelot. Bless his eclectic nature.

My generation, however? The one in-between mine and my children’s? Not so respectful. And it has completely knocked me on my ass. I want to be beautiful with words and perfect in my chastisement, but the only thing I can say with any great authority is, “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” Just because he has obvious mental illness, he is not worthy of due respect as a human being? One high school acquaintance of mine, a doctor, was particularly rude when enlightening us of MJ’s child molestation charges, and ended his post with a snarky “good riddance.” A doctor. Someone who has taken an oath to do no harm. Even more sick-making were the chimes of others, some I knew from high school, some I didn’t, who agreed with him.

They had not one lick of compassion. Parents lost a child. Children lost a father. Siblings lost a brother. The world lost a great, unmatchable talent. A human being died, a human being who touched the entire world with his music and the best we can do is say, “Yeah, he sure DID touch them. Henh. Henh.”

It was everywhere, as were the beautiful words of tribute. Friends and bloggers who I have come to respect lost some of that respect from me last night. Again, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Allow people to mourn. Is it the death of THEIR father, son, brother, friend? Of course not. But loss is loss and no one ever wants to lose those things from our childhood that made it a more pleasant, joyful, wonderful place to be.

In another vein, Farah Fawcett was our Marilyn Monroe. Her fight was courageous. Her loss is also huge. Will MJ’s death overshadow hers? It’s possible. It’s just bad timing – no one timed it all so Farrah would get brushed under the rug. We lost two icons in one day. It’s a sad, sad day. Need we qualify the losses? Need we chastise people’s sadness? Need we belittle the memories that made some of us who we are today?

We have plenty of time to joke about the fallacies of our fallen, and we will. It’s part of healing, too. The time will come.

For now though, be the man in the mirror that has made a statement of love and compassion and human kindness.

It was *gasp* a BOY and even better, it was a boy I didn’t know.  At first, he wouldn’t give me his name, but quickly became my “secret admirer” – an occasional phone call to boost my confidence, help me get my flirt on and probably drive my dad to an early grave.  A trifecta!  (Kidding, I love my dad, but I was 13 – annoying the ‘rents was a priority.)  After a number of frustrating, yet heart-palpitating calls, he finally gave me his name.

Brent Barger.  And he wanted to meet me.

Dude, it’s about time!

This is where some of my memory goes a little stale, but it clears up at the good part.  I went to the local 5 and Dime at the appointed time and waited for Brent.  It wasn’t unusual that I not know this boy as we were just into the second year of our whole district combining in middle school, so he could have come from the other side of town for all I knew.  I waited quite awhile, imagining a knight in shining armor.  A surfer in speedos and sunbeams.  A pop star in sequins and money.

Eventually Brent arrived.

Only.  He didn’t.

You see, another boy arrived, grinning at me from ear to ear, laughing AT me and the look on my face, making me feel like the first class idiot I knew I was.  It was actually Billy Bailey.

Now, Billy Bailey was not the kind of boy you’d want to have as a secret admirer.  Especially since he obviously enjoyed humiliating people.  We had gone to elementary school together and while I don’t recall having any major run-ins with him, I do remember just generally feeling the need to avoid him.  He was bad news.  He lived two streets down in the poorer end of town (yes, I was that shallow), he was a bit of a bully, never took school seriously and just NOT what a girl would have dreamed of when she dreamed of a “Secret Admirer”.

He laughed at me.  He laughed at my anger, at my plight.  At his great score at getting little Heidi all twisted up in knots yelling god-knows-what sorts of evil, hateful things.  Boy, he showed me!!!  Needless to say, I cried all the way home.  Not only didn’t I have a secret admirer, I was also an idiot.

In time, I learned that boys did sort of like me and I was the sort of girl that could have great relationships with great guys (and, to be fair and balanced, some not-so-great guys) and I eventually forgot all about Billy Bailey and even more so, of Brent Barger.  I fell in love a few times, went to college, got married, squirt out a couple of kids, and 30 years later live my life quite similarly to many suburban housewives all over the country.  Things are good. While I thought it then, my life was not ruined by the humiliation.

Now, in the life of moms everywhere, we have added to our days the thrill of Facebook.  I’ve slowly grown a passion for it because I’ve been able to reconnect with family, get to know far-away 2^nd generation family members I’d never have the opportunity to get to know otherwise.  I’ve hooked up with some old classmates and even been able to grieve the death of my best friend, who  many of them knew and loved, via the internet and social networking.  It’s been amazing.

You know what happens next, don’t you?  Yep, Billy found me.  And truth is, I don’t think before he found me I would have remembered the alias he used as my secret admirer, but as soon as I saw this simple note in my inbox, I knew.  And my heart melted.

Hello!  Long Time!

I’m really sorry about the Brent Barger thing.

Thirty years, 4 children between us, a number of moves and god knows how many petty life happenings later, he still carried that around with him.  We chatted and he admitted that indeed he really was the secret admirer, but knew that I would never talk to him.  That he would have done anything, ANYTHING to be close to me.  I saw on a post another friend had made with scans from our yearbook that I was the one he wanted more than any other.

Me.  Little.  Short.  Band geeky.  Mouthy.  A bit bitchy.  Choir nerdy.  Me.

I was so stunned and amazed that he remembered, that it still poked at him from time to time.  And then, as we talked, it occurred to me…

…he wasn’t so much the bad guy after all.

The “poor” kids know they’re poor by the time they hit 7^th grade.  The bullies know they’re the bullies.  The pranksters know they’re pranksters.  The unwanted KNOW they are unwanted.

And I loudly, boldly, pompously reminded him of all of those truths.

All he wanted was to talk to who he thought was the cute girl.  But, I was too good for him. 

I was the bad guy.  I went home drenched in my own humiliation, but what did he carry home?  What difference did I make in his life? Not one I’m particularly proud of, that’s for sure.

But, time does heal.  And we laugh together now on Facebook.  And, I got to wish him a Happy Birthday the other day.  And we’ve admired each other’s children and shared the short descriptions of our lives.  He’s okay.  He’s loved.  He found someone who loved him as he is.  As he should be.

I’m glad I was that lucky too, finding someone who loves me as I am, because really, that beginning in 7^th grade wasn’t so cute afterall.