Flute stories
Everything has a story.
That's what I said at the young adult group this afternoon. I don't think many pastors come playing flute. What does it mean?
So I mentioned the story my father told me when I was 7 or 8.
He recalled his experiences camping out on the make-shift airfields in North Africa with the 48th Fighter Squadron. At night time he could hear echoing down from the mountains the native flutes. When I heard him tell the story, I could visualize it and here the distant flute melodies, or at least I imagined it.
And that's sort of why I play flute.
Dad's story.
Today I recalled that story with the young adults in a church in Singapore. I wasn't very dramatic. Just so, not like Rudyard Kipling. Just so.
I don't think my father told it very dramatically, either. But it did its work.
Stories have a life of their own. They have a way of getting inside of you and planting a seed and, before you know it, growing into redwood trees.
When I heard my father tell the story, it seemed to justify my interest in the little bamboo flute that he bought for me a Norberg's Grocery store in Oakhurst. So I kept trying to pick out a tune, all the way to Sugar Pine camp or Calvin Crest.
I have no idea where that flute is. Maybe once the estate is cleaned up someone will find its remains in a closet.
Now, 45 years later I continue to play the silver Boehm flute the folks gave me for my 8th grace graduation.
Somewhere in the back of my head the flute melodies still echo down from the North African mountains.
That's what I said at the young adult group this afternoon. I don't think many pastors come playing flute. What does it mean?
So I mentioned the story my father told me when I was 7 or 8.
He recalled his experiences camping out on the make-shift airfields in North Africa with the 48th Fighter Squadron. At night time he could hear echoing down from the mountains the native flutes. When I heard him tell the story, I could visualize it and here the distant flute melodies, or at least I imagined it.
And that's sort of why I play flute.
Dad's story.
Today I recalled that story with the young adults in a church in Singapore. I wasn't very dramatic. Just so, not like Rudyard Kipling. Just so.
I don't think my father told it very dramatically, either. But it did its work.
Stories have a life of their own. They have a way of getting inside of you and planting a seed and, before you know it, growing into redwood trees.
When I heard my father tell the story, it seemed to justify my interest in the little bamboo flute that he bought for me a Norberg's Grocery store in Oakhurst. So I kept trying to pick out a tune, all the way to Sugar Pine camp or Calvin Crest.
I have no idea where that flute is. Maybe once the estate is cleaned up someone will find its remains in a closet.
Now, 45 years later I continue to play the silver Boehm flute the folks gave me for my 8th grace graduation.
Somewhere in the back of my head the flute melodies still echo down from the North African mountains.
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