Illness and faith, part 2

Before getting to the point of this post, I should take a moment to explain why I'm at this pastoral music convention.

I have been involved in liturgical music (beyond singing from the pews) since my college days, first as a choir member, then as a pianist.  My first apprenticeship happened at Loyola under the tutelage of two masters of the music renewal as it existed in the early 1980s, Sr. Mary McGann, RSCJ, and the late Mike Hay.  I learned the basics of the craft of accompanying for prayer from them.

Within a year of graduating, I was  leading an ensemble at the Sheil Chapel at Northwestern University.  I wasn't qualified - but neither were a lot of music leaders back in those days (and not a few parishes today have music leaders who could use more formation and development).  That was the beginning of my second apprenticeship, which was largely self-taught.  Along with technical and artistic growth, I learned a lot about cultivating a community, because as anyone who ever has sung in a church choir knows, a choir is a community unto itself - in fact, more than one community, as one bonds with one's section mates, the instrumentalists all bond together, and so on.

When I got married and moved to Arlington Heights, I found myself leading an ensemble again, this time in a parish, for another nine or ten years.  There was a music director in the parish, but she gave me wide freedom to build up an ensemble.  But after a decade or so, I was getting a little stale.  My gaps and limitations were becoming more pronounced, at least to me, and the music got a little dull.  It was about this time that I began my formation for the diaconate, and there was a part of me that rejoiced to have something new.  I found myself longing for the days when I had a director like Sr. Mary or Mike Hay who selected the songs and had a vision for them, instead of my having to create it myself every time and try to get the other musicians onboard for it.

Then, right around the time I was ordained, the parish hired a new music director, Gary Daigle.  Gary is a pretty big deal in the world of liturgical music.  He was a member of a group called The Dameans, which was a 1970s-80s group of composers, recording artists and performers.  They were contemporaries of the St. Louis Jesuits.  Gary was the fulfillment of my dream (one might go so far as to say that God heard my prayer and answered it, although I don't claim that Gary was sent to St. Edna Parish for my sake :-)).   I was now able to make music under a guy who did all those things I wished for.  So began my third apprenticeship.  I can say without hesitation that he's the best musical leader I've ever worked with.   At his best, an amazing guitarist and a phenomenal pianist. The songs he selects (and composes) are exactly right for the occasion.  He has a very specific vision of how a song should sound (and will write out the arrangement for it), and knows how to work with vocalists and instrumentalists to achieve it.

This year, Gary is being honored at the NPM convention: he is the NPM Musician Of The Year, one of the highest honors that can be bestowed on an American Catholic musician.

But there is something bittersweet about this honor.  About five years ago, Gary was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease.  And since then, his physical capabilities have been diminishing.  His body has become more stiff and rigid.

Those physical symptoms have had a marked impact on his ability to make and lead music.  Music-making is physical.  Occasionally, even frequently, he struggles now to play the piano - he has had to minimize his playing style, and even then he has some bad days.  He also struggles to play the guitar.  It is a tremendous frustration for him, not least because as he had told me, while pointing to his head, "It's all still up here".  In other words, he has a clear idea of what he wants to do, but his body no longer follows his brain's instructions.  He also finds it difficult to direct the choir - sometimes, simply beating the count with his arm is more than he can handle.  With medication, he has some good days, too, but it's hard to predict which kind of day a given day will be.

He accepted his award earlier today.  He was surrounded by a group of supporters and well-wishers (including Therese and me) and some top-flight musicians, some of whom he was worked with for 40 years.  He broke down in tears - it was the most emotional I've ever seen him.  Someone told me that the meds used to treat Parkinson's can have that effect on a patient's emotional expression, but I prefer to think that it was a moving moment for him.  I don't know what thoughts were passing through his mind, but it would be understandable if he was looking back on a life of service to the church's liturgy, and perhaps praying that he be allowed to continue to give more.