Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

I awoke several times this week in the middle of the night with uneasy dreams. I’m sure my subconscious was spurred into high gear by more than two years of disruptive pandemic, a seemingly needless war in Ukraine with more than a million refugees fleeing their homes, rising inflation, skyrocketing gasoline prices, and my own sense that the world was spiraling out of anyone’s control. Then I went to school.

This month the Jordan Education Foundation is engaged in its annual marathon to present an Outstanding Educator award to a teacher at every one of Jordan District’s 67 schools. As a long-time professional educator, it is extraordinarily satisfying for me to be able to walk into classrooms across the District and say “thank you” to people who have quietly dedicated their lives to helping students develop the skills they need to become productive adults. Members of our Foundation Board routinely gather in the main office of each school until a quorum arrives. We carry balloons, a beautiful, engraved crystal award, and an envelope containing what most teachers’ salaries too often lack–cash.

This midweek day we had assembled outside a principal’s office waiting for the family of a middle school band teacher to arrive to surprise their dad and celebrate his Outstanding Educator award with us. Tardy students wandered past us, signing in before they went to class; delivery folks dropped off packages at the desk; office staff took calls and answered questions. There was a low, busy hum of sound all around us. The band teacher’s family—a wife and two or three children–slipped in and was greeted by several Foundation Board members. I  was far enough away that I didn’t hear introductions or names, but the two daughters I could see appeared to be both elementary school age—one quite young and one slightly older.

I saw one of our Board members lean down to talk to the older girl. From a distance, I could only guess what must have been said. Perhaps my colleague asked if the daughter loved music as much as her father obviously did. Perhaps the daughter admitted that “yes” she loved to sing. I don’t know. But suddenly a clear, perfectly pitched voice lifted above the din. “Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.” A long-time participant of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square, our Board member’s voice encouraged the girl, and the band teacher’s young daughter chimed in with a tremulous but startlingly lovely voice.

All around us conversations muted and heads turned. A dozen small groups of people stopped what they were doing. Even the phones refused to interrupt. The two voices floated above us in unison so aligned, it seemed as if they had practiced together for hours.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star.

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops away above the chimney tops,

That’s where you’ll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.

Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, or why can’t I?

When they finished, there was a moment of hushed silence; then the crowded office erupted in applause.

Reawakening to our purpose, the principal bustled around gathering up our group of celebrants and leading us down the hallway to the band teacher’s room. We burst into clapping and cheering for an exceptional educator as was our tradition. But it was the unexpected, spontaneous music of his young daughter that, for a moment, had pushed aside the turmoil of a troubled world and reminded us that even in the midst of chaos there is hope.