I have been thinking about my youth, and tonight, my thoughts centered on the one place of refuge I had when I was younger. Believe it or not, it was church.

Tonight, my mother and I went to a concert at UAH. This valentine’s day concert has been going on annually for 7 years, and for a sizable donation to the music program, one can commission a jazz valentine, performed by a 20+ member jazz band. It was a lovely evening. The reason I went was that someone very dear to me was being honored this way.

Ken Turvey has been a fixture in Huntsville music for 40-50 years, at least. He lead the community chorus and was music director at our church when I was younger. He could play Widor’s toccatta and fugue in D. All of it. Even the part where it’s all feet. I think he’s completely retired now. He was 60 when I was in high school, so it’s a good bet. He still looks great, and as one that has lost a father, he was the next best thing.

I was in church choir from the age of five until I graduated from high school. Ken Turvey was there the whole time. Always availible to talk, always interested in me, always centered on music. The cool concrete block walls of the chior room was a welcome, calming place in my life where I could lose myself in the beauty of Bach, Rutter, and many other classic pieces. If there was a way to be in the choir loft on Sunday, I would find it, sometimes just to watch him play that huge organ with all the stops and keys and pedals. He was truly dwarfed by it, and even with every appendage engaged in playing the thing, he managed to direct us with his eyebrows and a sweep of his head. Larger than life to me, even now.

I don’t think he knows how powerful his teachings were to me. How important he was, and what he gave me. No matter how crazy my mom was, or how distant my father was, or how horrible school was in my teenage years, I was able to find peace in the music, and the friends that I made in that choir room. We were special, those of us who sang, played handbells, alcolyted and played our musical instruments for the congregation, sometimes more than twice a Sunday. I hadn’t realized how much I had changed until tonight.

I have no music in my life. Not like that, anyway. I play my 100-year-old piano when the kids let me. I sing when I can. But it’s not the way it was. There’s no complete immersion into the music the way it used to be. Music is so important. It’s a language. It’s math. It’s an amalgamation of sight, sound, symbolism, and feeling. Without it, life’s a bit pale. I think I’ll have to do something about its absense.