Month: September 2026

In 1979 I traveled with my UMass Amherst Concert Choir to Europe, an unforgettable ten-day adventure that brought us to England, Germany, Switzerland, and France. We had a terrific time, but the most amazing experience by far was singing a Mass at Notre-Dame in Paris. I recall looking out at the grand, vaulted cathedral—shafts of light streaming through the stained-glass windows and touching the gray plumes of burning incense—while hearing my voice and those of my classmates soar across the space. I was there in the moment, but transported to a realm of spirituality that had been foreign to me as a child growing up (I’ve often said I don’t believe in organized religion—I’m a Unitarian). That which many people call God was there with me as we sang.

I thought again of that Mass in August of 2026 when my wife and I traveled with our daughter and her two boys, 9 and 11, to Paris for vacation.

We were only in Paris for three days before heading off to Provence for a week, so our time in the city was packed with “touristy” things, those places that may be on everyone’s top destination list—and often crowded—but nevertheless essential. If you followed the news, you know that France was in the middle of a massive heat wave; undaunted, we carried little electric fans to cool off in the Parisian inferno.

On day three, as the scorching sun began to fall below the horizon, we gathered on the top deck of a tour boat on the Seine River near the Eiffel Tower. At dusk, Paris truly earns its moniker as “the City of Light,” a warm glow of subtle illumination and shadow, painterly and lovely beyond words. All the better given the sights that we floated past, the ancient buildings blending with the modern. Sitting to my left were my two grandsons, and on my right our daughter—then celebrating her fortieth birthday.

My grandsons had been having a ball the whole time we were in the city, excitedly exploring the Louvre, the Palace of Versailles, and everyplace in between.

These boys—I call them “my boys” even though I’m Grandpa Ted—are gregarious and lively by nature, but when we were on that boat tour they became quiet and still, gazing at the sights with a sense of wonder. I felt this, too. A feeling that rose to a whole new level when Notre-Dame came into view.

I stared at the cathedral, and while I was taking it all in—the rose-darkening light upon its gorgeous, recently restored exterior—I was both outside gliding past and inside, too, young again with my choir.

Without thinking about it, I began to sing the melody of Dona Nobis Pacem, a traditional church canon.

The song is often arranged as a round, with other voices joining in succession to form a musical tapestry. Sure enough, my daughter started singing with me, picking up the melody at just the right time. The cathedral was right before us—majestic and solemn—as the sound of our voices rose and intertwined. Other passengers heard us and smiled at our impromptu chorus. I’ve never been shy about singing at family gatherings or in public. And I can’t count the number of times my kids or grandkids floated off to dreamland to the sound of my voice. This is a family tradition, one carried on from generation to generation.

My grandsons could not have been surprised by our duet, but the whole experience—the cathedral, the boat, the singing—registered on their faces a sense of magic.

All special moments pass. This one, too. Now, at the age of 67, I’ve been fortunate to have seen many of these fleeting glimpses of wonder. They are like individual frames in a movie speeding by, accelerating as I get older and hence all the more precious. The translation of Dona Nobis Pacem is “grant us peace.” Amen to that.

Just before our boat docked, the night falling and the Eiffel Tower showered in sparkling lights, I turned to my grandsons and asked, “You know what my favorite part of this vacation has been?”

They replied, “What?”

“Being here with you.”