American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  He stepped away from the fireplace and came back to his chair. Susanna couldn’t take her eyes off him as he braced one hand on the table and let the other fall at his side. In that moment, with his tousled hair and commanding Mediterranean features, he seemed to belong to an older time, a different place. If he were to exchange his casual clothing for a cloak and a walking stick, he could easily be taken for an Italian prince from the remote past.

  Perhaps Susanna should have been shocked at the things he was telling her. She could hear his voice, see his face, feel his pain—and his shame. And yet she took it all in as from a distance, all the while knowing that the man he used to be could never in any way diminish the man he had become.

  The man she loved…

  “There was much chaos in my life at that time, and in my marriage as well,” he went on. “I almost became ill. Not physically, but in my mind and”—he touched his heart—“in my spirit. I could never seem to find a quiet place. I could never be alone. There was such confusion, such clamor all around me and inside me.

  “And so I left. I went away.” He shuddered. “I ran away.”

  31

  A NEW SONG

  I cannot sing the old songs,

  For me their charm is o’er

  My earthly harp is laid aside,

  I wake its chords no more.

  The precious blood of Christ my Lord

  has cleansed and made me free,

  And taught my heart a new song,

  Of his great love to me.

  FANNY CROSBY

  By now I was desperate,” Michael said. “Desperate to find some peace, a quiet place. I needed to think. I needed to find God again.”

  He heard Susanna’s sharp intake of breath. “You went alone? Without Deirdre?”

  “Deirdre would not have gone, even if I had asked. But I didn’t ask. She became very angry with me. But I had such an urgency, such a need to get away—I felt I had no choice. I canceled my performances. All of them. And then I left.”

  Michael’s back knotted with tension, and he straightened, easing his shoulders before going on. “As it happened, I ended up staying away for a long time—weeks. But it was the best thing, the most important thing, I could have done.” He paused. “It changed my life.

  “A friend—another singer and a man of great faith—allowed me the use of his cabin in Canada. I took nothing with me except a few clothes, some food, my Bible—too long unread—and a collection of Mr. Moody’s teachings and sermons that my friend lent to me…”

  As he went on, Michael forgot his present surroundings, forgot even Susanna’s presence. He was back in the lonely cabin in the Canadian wilderness, back to the time when he had still been able to see…but only with his eyes, not with his heart.

  It had been agony…

  And it had been glory.

  Alone in that cabin in the woods, he soon discovered that he had almost forgotten how to pray. He was like a child who had to learn his letters all over again. At last, when he did manage to break through the clutter of his mind and soul, when he finally began to pray—haltingly at first, but honestly—he found himself speaking to silent walls.

  God’s only response had been no response.

  Drenched in self-pity, drowning in desperation, he begged and raged and wept. He learned what it meant to “storm heaven.” At times his words were little more than the babble of lunacy, but still he went on praying, trying to break through the wall his own foolishness and sin had erected.

  Only years later did he recognize how troubled and tormented he had been. And only with the perspective of time did he come to understand what God had wanted from him: total brokenness. Nothing less could release him from his past so that a new heart could be born in him, a new life begin in him.

  Days turned into weeks until one morning, shattered and bitterly disillusioned, he faced himself in a soot-clouded mirror and saw a filthy, unkempt, unshaven husk of a man with wild eyes and streaks of silver in his hair. An empty man: empty of pride, his will crushed, his hope abandoned.

  A man in total despair.

  Only then did God speak. Not with a shout of judgment or angry rebuke, but in a whisper that pierced Michael’s spirit and stitched his very soul to eternity. In that isolated, wind-battered cabin, Michael found his mind opened to truth, his soul flooded with the healing, all-encompassing love of his Savior.

  He remembered the moment, remembered the Word: “But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ… What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”

  He also pored over the book his friend had lent him, the writings of the evangelist, D. L. Moody, a man known to despise the limelight. Moody repeatedly cautioned that one must “sink the self” and get rid of “this man worship.” Man’s desire, he wrote, is for “the great and the mighty,” but God’s way is to use the “foolish and despised things.”

  One passage in particular reverberated in Michael. He read it over and over until finally it was seared into his memory forever. “If we lift up ourselves and say we have got such great meetings and such crowds are coming, and get to thinking about crowds and about the people, and get our minds off from God, and are not constantly in communion with Him, lifting our hearts in prayer, this work will be a stupendous failure.”

  That’s what his work had become, Michael realized. That’s what he had become. A stupendous failure…

  And in the realization, Michael found new hope. God had broken his heart only to fill it with His own presence, His truth, and His love. At times, Michael thought he would surely die of the outpouring of such wondrous love.

  A few days later, he went home: a new man, with a new heart, and a new life.

  As Michael went on speaking, Susanna realized that he was not so much recounting the past as reliving it. She could see it in the tension of his hands, the tightening of his mouth, the disjointed frame of his words.

  She could also sense what this was costing him. The pain of the account was chipping away like a sculptor’s chisel at his reserve and composure. Once she was tempted to save him from the agony, to tell him he needn’t go on. But her need to hear the rest—to hear everything—was too compelling. He was opening the door of his soul to her, and she had no intention of standing outside.

  So she sat in rigid silence, her breathing shallow, her mind scrambling to imagine what he had gone through—all the while wishing she dared to touch him, to put her arms around him and comfort him.

  “I tried to explain to Deirdre what had happened to me,” he finished. “And the changes I needed to make in my life—in our lives. Foolishly, I believed I could persuade her to want what I had found.”

  “And you never went back to the opera?”

  He shook his head. “No. I knew before I left the cabin that I was finished with that life, that I would never again go seeking after the world’s idea of greatness. I knew that I would never sing again in public except to praise my Creator—and only then if God specifically led me to do so.”

  He grew still for a moment. “I think it might have been much like this for the great Jenny Lind. You know of her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “She, too, left the stage at the height of her success and never returned. It is said that her reason for doing so was because her career had begun to draw her attention and her loyalty away from God. She feared it would consume her and eventually separate her from Him entirely. So she gave it up.”

  “But wasn’t it nearly impossible to abandon all that? Your voice—it’s such an incredible gift—”

  “I still sing,” he said before she could finish. “I simply sing a new song. The orchestra is my voice now, and the music I write—this is my song. A song from my own pen, from my heart—and from God’s heart, of course.”

  Susanna gazed at him with dawning understanding. She couldn’t begin to comprehend everything he had relinquished, even though she stood in awe of his willingness to
surrender it. But she could see for herself that what he had renounced was nothing compared to what he had gained.

  Michael had exchanged a crown for a Cross; the crown of celebrity for the Cross of Christ.

  There was no doubting the serenity she saw in his face, the undercurrent of peace that emanated from him, even when life was at its most chaotic. The strength of his character and the power of his genius were tempered only by his submission to the God who had gifted him.

  The life he lived was a victory, a tribute, a rare and continual blessing to everyone who knew him. Michael himself was a gift.

  Finally, Susanna realized, she had met the man behind the music.

  When he had completed his story, Michael’s mood seemed to change. He rose, facing her. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough.”

  “Oh, no, Michael! I’m so grateful you told me. All this time I’ve wondered why…”

  She stood, feeling the need to say more, to say something…meaningful. Instead, she was able to manage only a question. “Michael, will you ever sing again? In public?”

  He seemed to frame his words with great care. “Only if I knew it was what God wanted.”

  “But how would you know?”

  “I would know,” he said after a moment, “because I would not be able to not sing. It would be…that I could not contain the joy, and so I would have to give it voice.”

  Susanna studied him. “Tonight, for the first time,” she said, “I finally feel as if I know you.”

  “Sì? And now that you know me, Susanna, I wonder—do you like me?”

  “What? Of course, I—” She broke off. “What do you mean?”

  He started around the table, then paused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “It’s something Caterina said just the other day. She informed me that she loved you better than anyone else in the world—with the exception of her papa, of course.”

  Susanna warmed to his words. “Thank you for telling me that, Michael.”

  “And then,” he went on, “she asked me if I liked Aunt Susanna. Naturally I assured her that I…like Aunt Susanna very much.”

  Susanna found it nearly impossible to swallow. He drew closer.

  “She also asked if you are aware of how much I like you, and pointed out that I should make my feelings known to you, lest there be any doubt.”

  “Did she?” Susanna fought for breath.

  “Oh, yes. Cati was very firm about that.”

  He came the rest of the way around the table and took Susanna’s hands in his.

  “Since I will most surely never hear the end of it if I don’t act upon my daughter’s advice, allow me to reiterate what I said to Caterina.”

  He squeezed her hands a little. “I like Aunt Susanna very much,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Very much indeed.”

  Susanna’s heart turned over as she saw the uncertainty in his expression and heard the tenderness in his voice.

  “Cati also said that when you look at me, she can tell you like me, too.”

  Susanna inhaled sharply. “Did she? Precocious child, Caterina.” She had intended to assume a light tone, but her voice wavered.

  A look of surprise darted over his face. “Ah,” he said. “Is it true, then?”

  Susanna swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Yes…it’s true.”

  When he opened his arms to her, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to step into his embrace and let his warm strength enfold her. And when he eased back enough to pass a hand over her cheek, not quite touching her but hovering as if he wanted to, Susanna had the strangest feeling that he could see her, that he was looking deep inside her.

  She drew his head down to hers, closed her eyes, and with both hands began to trace the lines of his face with her fingertips, just as he had done the night he had first “looked” at her. He let out a long, shaky breath as she continued to mold his face with her fingers.

  When she stopped, he touched his forehead to her forehead, then his lips to her lips. “Susanna?”

  Again, Susanna squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in the sound of her name on his lips.

  “Susanna,” he repeated, “do you think you could ever come to love a hopelessly stubborn blind man who is probably too old for you and is given to long bouts of silence?”

  Susanna framed his face between her hands. “I thought you knew,” she said softly. “I already love such a man.”

  His smile was slow in coming, but infinitely tender. “And…do you know how I feel about you?”

  “I think I should make certain, don’t you? Caterina wouldn’t want me to have any doubts.”

  “That’s true. Ah…let me think: how do the Irish say it? ‘I love you…more than anything.’”

  “Everything,” Susanna corrected. “‘I love you more than everything.’”

  “Sì! And I love you more than everything!”

  He swept her into a dizzying embrace and kissed her again. And again.

  “Do I make myself clear?” he asked.

  “Perfectly,” Susanna replied.

  Epilogue

  THE GIFT, THE GIVER, AND THE GLORY

  That Voice that broke the world’s blind dream

  Of gain, the stronger hand may win,

  For things that are ’gainst things that seem

  Pleaded, The Kingdom is within.

  PERCY CLOUGH AINSWORTH

  New York City

  A week before Christmas

  Backstage in the rehearsal room, a few minutes before the concert, Michael put his arm around Susanna and drew her aside. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m…ill. Yes, I’m definitely ill. I’d really like to leave and go home now, please.”

  Susanna kept her tone light, but there was some truth in her reply. At the moment, she would rather be anywhere else than here, preparing to go onstage.

  He smiled and clucked his tongue at her. “You’re going to be fine, cara.” He turned his head as if listening. “Are we alone?”

  Susanna glanced around. “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “So, then—tell me again what you’re going to remember if you get nervous.”

  “Michael, I’m more than nervous! I’m terrified!”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Tell me.”

  “Oh, all right! The Gift, the Giver, and the Glory.”

  “And explain.”

  Susanna glared at him. “I must remember that my gift is no greater—and no smaller—than any of God’s other gifts.” She paused, her voice a little stronger as she went on. “In playing the organ, I offer it back to the Giver of all gifts, who makes it shine with glory.”

  Michael lifted a hand to graze her cheek. “Tonight God will make your gift…all our gifts…shine with glory. You will see, cara.”

  He leaned down to kiss her—a gentle but lingering kiss.

  “Ahem.”

  Susanna turned.

  Paul Santi was standing there, his face the color of ripe beets. “Scusi, Michael, Susanna. It is time.”

  The lights dimmed. The velvet curtains opened. The audience vigorously applauded the orchestra, then waited amid rustling and murmuring.

  Relieved that she’d actually made it to the organ without tripping, Susanna sat staring at the manuals. The stops. The music. Her hands.

  There had been so little time, so few rehearsals.

  She stared at the backs of the musicians and choir members. They were ready. Confident. At ease. Again she glanced at her trembling hands, then wiped them down both sides of her dress.

  Paul stood with his violin and gave the musicians their note of A. He waited until the cacophany of tuning swelled and finally died away. Then he left the stage to get Michael.

  Susanna forced herself to search the audience, her gaze traveling upward to Michael’s private box where Caterina and Rosa Navaro were seated. Caterina saw her and waved, and Rosa smiled. Buoyed a little by the sight of them, Susanna took two or three deep breaths and wiped her hands again.
Downstairs, in orchestra seating, she found Dr. Cole and Dr. Carmichael—newly betrothed, both their faces aglow. Beside them sat Miss Fanny Crosby, beaming in the direction of the orchestra.

  A hush fell over the concert hall as Paul escorted Michael onto the stage, followed by an outburst of applause. A rush of pride and love swept over Susanna as she watched Michael acknowledge the audience’s welcome with a small bow. Did others see him as she did—as elegant, as regal as a prince, achingly handsome in his black tails and snowy white stock?

  He turned to the orchestra, touching his toe to the metal strip at the podium, the marker he used while conducting. Unexpectedly, he lifted his head and aimed a knowing smile in Susanna’s direction, nodding ever so slightly, as if to reassure her.

  And then it was time. Michael gave a light tap of the baton, squared his shoulders, and cued the organ’s robust introduction to “Adeste Fideles.”

  A rich blast of sound rumbled through the concert hall as the mighty organ, the full orchestra, and three choirs announced to the audience that a celebration of joy had begun.

  “O come, all ye faithful…”

  What a glorious sound! Susanna had to remind herself that the music emanated not only from the organ, but from her, pouring out from the depths of her spirit and powered by the gift that had been given to her. Even so, she had to struggle to retain control and harness the power of the massive instrument she so precariously commanded.

  She gave only an occasional glance at the music in front of her. Instead, she watched Michael: not the manuals or the stops or even her own hands, but Michael. She watched him so closely—every movement, every facial twitch, every lift of his head or sweep of his baton—that gradually she began to feel herself being melded into the orchestra, absorbed into the choirs. Under Michael’s leadership, she became one with the musicians and the music.

  So immersed was she in this festival of praise that she lost sight of her fears and inadequacies, forgot about notes and chords and arpeggios, no longer thought about crescendos and diminuendos or even stops and manuals. It was all a gift, and she was only one of the many givers.