This photograph was posted a few days ago on Facebook by Mark Penning,  a classmate of mine at Luther (and a wonderful tenor to boot.)  It shows the 34 seniors who were in Nordic Choir 1981-1982.  I am assuming that this photo was taken towards the very end of the year, judging from the happy yet exhausted expression on all of our faces – maybe right before or right after we sang for baccalaureate.  I can still vividly remember the sorrow-racked performance of “O Lord God” – Nordic’s signature piece – which we sang (or tried to sing)  that morning. . . the very last time we were going to be singing together. . . and as we got to “I will sing to the Lord as long as I live”  what had always been a majestic outpouring of magnificent sound was instead a shaken, even grief-stricken tremolo – and I think as we ourselves heard that sound and realized what each other was feeling,  our hearts broke even a little more.  Something amazing was drawing to a close and we all knew it.   There was no escaping it.

Part of it was that the class of ’82 –  and I suppose I’m biased, but ask any long time music prof at Luther and they will agree –  featured the finest array of singers that Luther College had ever seen.   And I would like to think that we were also good people,  by and large,  and a tribute to our school and to the choir in which we took such pride.   And speaking of pride,  I know that I for one didn’t always manage to live up to the college’s motto Soli Deo Gloria – to God alone the Glory – but I think most of us most of the time had a strong sense that whatever talent we each possessed-  as well as the energy and resourcefulness to make the most of our talent-  was a gift, pure and simple…. and not a gift we had in any way earned or even deserved.  And if our sense of that was rather sketchy at the time, I think by now that all of the people you see smiling in that photo have gained a much more profound sense of how ridiculously blessed we were.

And by the way, any excessive sense of self-importance which I might have had about what the 34 of us meant to Nordic were pretty much dashed the first homecoming after I graduated, when I made my way back to Luther – and heard the “new” Nordic Choir, minus the magnificent contingent of 34 senior singers who had anchored the choir the year before.  There was some small part of me that quietly hoped that I would hear a choir embarking on a long year of slow rebuilding…  unable to deliver thundering climaxes like we had, but gamely doing the best they could with what they had.   But no, what I heard was absolutely marvelous – and it was only then that I realized that the 34 of us were part of something much much bigger than we were,  and that not even our sobering mass exodus from the scene was going to be enough to rock the choir back on its collective heels.  No, they scarcely missed a beat – although I would like to think that when they gathered for that first rehearsal in the fall of 1982,  maybe a couple of them looked around and wondered “what’s wrong with this picture?”

Speaking of  “What’s wrong with this picture?”  That  photograph of smiling seniors from 30 years ago seems to depict one deliriously happy family,  but we were by no means immune to jealousy and competitiveness.  There were certain closely bundled friendships that to others might have looked like or felt like cliques –  and one person pictured in this photograph posted on Facebook about  the pain which she felt as a transfer student in trying to fit in with people who already knew each other so well.  We were far from perfect, but by and large we were doing the best we knew how to do as we juggled new found confidence with lingering insecurities . . . invigorating independence with a longing for home . . .   and our sense of rich blessedness with a disconcerting uneasiness for what was next for us.  And of course,  none of those smiling seniors could possibly know that for some there were some amazing joys ahead- and for others, incredible sorrows and challenges.  (And probably for most of us, some mix of both.)   Like those fun T-shirts say,  Life Is Good.  But that doesn’t mean that Life Is Fair.  If life were fair, then my classmate who posted this photograph would not have seen his vibrant, athletic son stricken with cancer.   (Thank goodness he has made an amazing recovery.)    If life were fair,  then Kathy Hoadley would be alive and well and on her way to our 30th reunion.  And if life were fair,  I would be calling my mom today to spell out our plans for the weekend and sharing highlights from the week gone by, something I’ve not been able to do since she died suddenly almost 25 years ago.  The longer you live on this earth,  the more deeply you realize that life itself is an unavoidable blend of life and death, gain and loss, delight and pain – and somehow, through the grace of God,  it is good.  .  . and sometimes, miraculously,  it is the best in the midst of what seems to be the worst.   When I look back on this past week,  in which all kinds of great things happened,  I think my single favorite moment came yesterday morning when I visited a voice student of mine, a sophomore named Nick, who is in the hospital.   If there was ever a “what’s wrong with this picture” moment, it was for a 52-year-old couch potato to be standing over the bedside of a 21 year old young man, who finds himself suddenly contending with Crohn’s Disease.  But he is doing remarkably well and to see Nick’s warm smile and vibrant self was an incredible affirmation that even when life is at its most inexplicable,   there is so much good to be found.   And I trust that when I see my classmates again this weekend,  that will be the story told again and again. . . not polished fairy tales,  but stories where people do find a way to live happily ever after,  come what may.

pictured above:  I am the farthest guy to the left – and the guy standing right behind me, with his hand on my shoulder, is Mark Penning,  who posted this photograph to facebook in the first place.  (I’m not sure if it was his photo or not.)   And I’m just now realizing that another fine tenor from our class,  Roger Henderson,  appears to be missing from the photo.     And I would be remiss not to mention someone else who was part of the class of 1982, although I’m not sure if he actually graduated from Luther or not.  Michael Branscom was a gifted baritone;  he died of AIDS some years ago.