From Sea to Shining Sea

It was three years after 9/11. Living in Amsterdam at the time, we had the great fortune of being able to make the occasional jaunt to catch up with vacationing friends nearby. On one such occasion, we were on the Champs-Elysee with our friends visiting from Los Angeles. Being abroad, the significance of our “where were you that day” stories was heightened. What felt like a decade had only been a few years. Like Boomers who talk about the Before and After a presidential assassination, there was no denying we had crossed a line of some kind.

I was in Europe for six September 11ths. On those days, otherwise taciturn Dutch neighbors would soften their glance or perhaps even express their regrets. It was one of those rare days of the year when I hung up my assimilation shoes and wore my Americanness like a fresh-pressed suit. Empathetic reverberations from that attack were embracing and kind and brought out a sense of togetherness. Much like the day itself and the months that followed.

In 2001, I lived in Minnesota. On the day of the attack, my evening plan was to perform with some high school musicians at a church nearby. The event was a celebration with kids and parents of the great camping experience they had had that summer. Roughly 400 people were expected to attend. It was going to be epic: pyrotechnics, lasers and circus clowns (also known as singing songs, homemade videos and a power point).

As the news dropped on our laps minute by minute that day, our event became seemingly irrelevant, if not inappropriate. But after a round of phone calls, we decided to proceed with the gathering and agreed that the opportunity to be together in shock and mourning was a gift.

Do you ever wonder, dear musicians, how many other professions get moments like we do? Those instances when years of training and preparation give you special access to the heart, even if just for a measure or two? It is such a gift.

That night, the kids came through the doors with their parents. It was quiet, save a low murmur of greetings and chatter. On stage, the worship leader, pastor, myself and the band talked through our altered set list. All subdued songs. Nothing loud or hopped up. The lights went down and the program began. The music - the singing - was beautiful. The message was spot on. And although the heavy silence hung like a blanket, the weight was almost comforting. We were feeling it together. As so many communities would recall in years to come, those days, weeks and months after 9/11 brought a sense of togetherness unrivaled by anything before in our generation.

To close the evening, I played “America the Beautiful” in that great still room. Playing from the heart, I started with eight singular notes, each hanging in the space of shared solace, sounding as pure as if a child had sung. My fingers shook a little as I choked back thoughts of those proud lyrics. Of the way people sing about their home country and why they love it. And how it seems that by just singing or playing music, an entire people should be protected from evil.

The final notes hung there. We breathed. And then, we got up and moved on.

Do you ever wonder, dear musicians, how many other professions get moments like we do? Those instances when years of training and preparation give you special access to the heart, even if just for a measure or two? It is such a gift. We get to punctuate life’s jumps and falls and create moments out of silence.

Of course, I will never forget 9/11. I will also never forget the power of coming together to mourn, to feel, to be in community, and to move forward stronger and better than before.

O beautiful for patriot dream, that sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears
America, America, God shed His grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea

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