Sarah GENE

This is actually something written recently by my daughter, Sarah Gene after a trip to Kansas City to attend an event honoring Dr. Eugene Lowry, the source of her middle name.

It’s Gene, G-E-N-E by Sarah Gene


Just a few weeks ago, my class was asking each other what their middle names were. Some answers were whispered, paired with the reddening of the speaker’s cheeks, and some were shouted, having been forced from the person by constant pestering and prodding. One of my good friends stated hers proudly, and received laughs and teasing in return. I slouched in my chair, shaking my head at my classmates’ insolence. It was then a particularly irritating member of my class asked me the repetitive question. “So what’s your middle name, Sarah?” He spat my name out of his mouth like a swallowed bug. I replied promptly, and with no hesitation. “Gene,” I answered, smiling. “G-E-N-E.” Since I had shown no reluctance or embarrassment, he had no idea what to do. He sort of smiled uncomfortably, and walked away.
Another time, my best friend asked me why I had a picture of a man sitting at a piano as my computer background. I explained to her that the man was my godfather, Gene Lowry. I went on to add to his résumé. I told her he was an accomplished jazz pianist, a professor at my mom’s seminary school (I also explained to her what exactly a seminary was), and the pastor who had baptized me. Then for the grand slam. I explained as best as I could how I got my name Sarah, from his wife, Sarah Lowry, and my middle name, Gene, from Dr. Eugene L. Lowry. She only stared at me, perplexed. I smiled and patted her on the back sympathetically. “Never mind,” I said. “I didn’t get it the first time either.”
The last time I’d seen him before coming to Kansas City to celebrate his book, I had been ten years old. I hardly remember it. But this time particularly stood out in my mind. I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I mean, I knew, obviously, that he’d gotten older, and that he was bound to comment on how much taller I’d gotten, but that was all. I was not expecting the energetic, bubbly young-hearted man I saw. He pounded those piano keys until I was sure they would break, and he’d even try to shout over the thunderous music. Powerful, soulful words passed from his lips, and yet he made us laugh. Music was his energy, and surged through his blood, and kept him alive. It was, in a word, almost surreal. Music was Gene, and Gene was music. It was as simple, as wonderful, as that.