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Most of this material is covered on the About Michael page, but here it is in a more detailed fashion.
I grew up in a Christian home, the oldest of five. My mother came from a conservative Baptist family; my grandfather had had hopes of attending Moody Bible Institute, but finally chose to move to Chattanooga, TN to attend Tennessee Temple College (that was what it was called then, anyway). She was the second of six girls (one died in infancy), and herself enrolled in Temple as a piano major. She dropped out after having finished only her first year to marry my father.
Dad came from a broken home. His father was ambivalent to spiritual things, and his mother was a Seventh-Day Adventist (but did not make a habit of attending much). Dad spent lots of time "floating" between his two parents, eventually striking out on his own before finishing high school. He went to work for the Chattanooga Police Department, from which he retired in 1995 after 26 years of service.
When they were married, Mom was born again; Dad was not. It was even after I had already been born (but not late enough for me to have any memory) that Dad was led to Christ. He felt a call not long after to preach, and was in fact known in the area as "the Preaching Policeman." He had taught all of his kids to sing "Jesus Loves Me" in German (which he says he learned in Sunday School when little; since Adventists observe worship on Saturday, he probably just said "Sunday School" because at our young age "Saturday School" might have been confusing). Thus began my performance career, around the age of eight.
To back up a bit: it was always Mom and Dad's intention that their children be as surrounded by Christian values and insulated from worldly influences as possible, so my siblings and I were enrolled in private Christian school.
Sometime during my second-grade year (I believe I was seven), I was coming out of a bath and was putting clothes in the hamper. I don't remember exactly what happened, but I inadvertently used a slang word. Not a really bad word, but we knew not to use any kind of terminology Dad called "by-words," words or phrases that were stand-ins for language we knew was really off the reservation. Mom called me into the living room and asked me if I knew I had done wrong and why, causing me to face the concept of guilt. It was then that she led me to saving knowledge of Christ.
Life was pretty normal for me until my sixth-grade year, at which point it had become quite evident that Dad wasn't getting paid enough to keep us in private school. So they decided to home-school me and my four siblings (and a few of my cousins, but that's another story). I did this for three years, after which time Mom and Dad gave me the option of working part-time (as 14-year-olds are only allowed to do) to earn my tuition at Grace Academy, the private school started by the church we had been attending. I jumped on the chance to go to a normal school with other kids again!
Side-note: I don't wish to cast aspersions on home-schooling. Some people are cut out for it, some aren't. Some parents do it well (my Mom was excellent at keeping us on task--maybe a little too excellent); some shouldn't be trying it. I'm not trying to be judgemental one way or another, I just didn't enjoy it. I learned fine while home-schooling.
Okay, back to our story. I really hadn't had much opportunity to use my singing skills (such as they were at the time) because Dad had not been taking as many preaching engagements and the local school fine arts competitions I had participated in while in elementary school were no longer available to me. Now, however, being in regular school (well, still private Christian) gave me new opportunities to perform and learn new and harder musics.
Sometime during my sophomore year (I think), my choir director at that time, Myrna Smith, was talking to me about my future. (I have found that some teachers have an interest in really putting their students on the spot; fortunately, this was not exactly in front of a huge audience.) She made this observation (I paraphrase, because I'm not sure I remember her exact phraseology): "Michael, at some point, God is going to do something so drastic in your life to show you His will. Maybe it will be good, maybe it will be terrible." Interesting, but I didn't lose sleep over it.
I had resumed participating in fine arts competitions by now, and (miraculously) made it to Nationals my junior year (after having won State competition, of course). Upon review of my judging sheets--needless to say, I didn't exactly place--Mom and Dad decided to find me a voice teacher. Thus began my long--and continuing--relationship with Bill Ormesher.
Bill taught me bel canto singing--the premise being that singing ought to be free-flowing, easy on the voice, and very legato (smooth and connected). There are other schools of thought on vocal production, but after having studied bel canto and other philosophies, I don't really see much sense in learning any other way. It preserves the voice in a way no other--and I mean no other--vocal production philosophy can hope to. He taught me to blend the "voices"--that is, to mix the falsetto with my chest voice. Pavarotti calls it "educated yelling" (at least, that's what he told David Letterman it was); it's knowing how, basically, to get as much product out of your instrument with as little effort as possible.
I started my college career at Tennessee Temple (now) University, majoring in Accounting. Why? It seemed more logical to pursue a degree that I could actually get a job doing when I graduated. Still, I pursued a minor in music and continued to study with Bill.
Through a snafu in Dad's income reporting, I suddenly was no longer eligible for the Pell grant that had been supporting me through my freshman year. This meant only two things: drop out or go to state school. State school it was, and that's when life really started getting interesting.
I enrolled as a biology/pre-med major, but after making a B in basic biology, figured I didn't stand much of a chance of getting into med school (so much for ever being a cardiologist; I couldn't even stand the sight of blood, what was I thinking?), and switched to majoring in music. I enrolled in the university choir under the direction (then) of Glenn Draper, with whom I have had a very interesting relationship.
Glenn gave me lots of headaches (he did have his own agenda regarding me and all the rest of his singers), but he also taught me a lot about performing and making myself heard. I tended to be shy and reticent, but I learned that if I didn't speak up for myself if I wanted an opportunity, no one was going to do it for me.
I graduated from UTC in 1995 with a Bachelor of Music in Vocal Performance degree. This got me absolutely no work, so I went with what had always been my back-up skill: art.
Throughout my childhood, I was always drawing pictures. I have a good eye for balance and perspective, I perceive color well, and have the coordination to actually get on the paper what's in my head. I parlayed these skills into a graphic design job with a college friend I had been in university choir with. He and some friends had started a screen-printing company, and he needed an artist. I showed him some of my pieces and went to work for him. One thing led to another, and eventually I found myself working for a photofinishing company. It was at this point that I met Joy.
One of my uncles was the president of a Kiwanas club in north Georgia, and they needed someone to sing for their 1996 Valentine's Day program. It had just snowed really hard that month; in fact, the streets were impassible in the Chattanooga area for days, and their original entertainment was apparently unable to make the show. So he called me at work one day, seven hours before the program was to start, asking me if I could pinch-hit. Like all impoverished musicians, I said "Yeah, sure," without so much as a hint of a thought as to how hard this would be to pull together. Another good friend of mine from college had a synthesizer and portable sound system, so that was easy to line up. Assistance at the keyboard, however, was not (Mom had long since begged off accompanying me anymore). I must have called a dozen people I knew (and some I didn't), trying to find an accompanist. Eventally I got hold of Randy Price, then choral director at Tennessee Temple University, to see if there were any good pianists over there. He said he had someone in mind and would call me back if he could get in touch with her.
When in doubt, make a Plan B. I went to my local Christian bookstore and raided their accompaniment tape racks for any romantic tunes I knew and thought would be appropriate for this shindig. Mom calls me while I'm still at the store and tells me Randy's got hold of this girl and, yes, she's willing to play for me on zero-days notice. That's right, she was as crazy as I was.
I'll not bore you with any more details, except to say this: Joy proved to be the best accompanist I had ever worked with. She even on-the-spot composed the last verse of Nat King Cole's "Stardust" without actually knowing it. (Last page was missing--long story.) It was all Providence from then on.
I made Joy my beloved bride February 22, 1997. We knew that God had orchestrated our union for more than just convenience, but for the longest time didn't show us just how our partnership as musicians was to develop. Whenever I sang special music at church Joy would play, but no one was exactly asking us to come give concerts. We temporarily toyed with the idea of trying to strike out for Moody and get some ministry training, but God never opened those doors.
The problem, it turns out, was that I had been trying to engineer God's plan for our lives for Him. Take my word for it, that doesn't work. And if it does "work," it will probably only make you miserable. Well, for me it never worked. In fact, in April of 2000 God decided to bless me (I use the word "bless" carefully) with a life-lesson.
I had been having headaches pretty much since Christmas of 1999, and for one reason or another could never get health insurance from the company I was working for. So, of course, around Easter of 2000 (the musician's second-busiest time of the year), the headaches finally having kept me from a night's sleep, I decided to visit the emergency room to get some drugs that would dull the pain (I was slated to sing Theodore Dubois' "The Seven Last Words of Christ" for a friend). That Sunday morning, God had other plans.
They said I was moving around while having my CAT scanned (a little play on words there--I don't even like cats), and that made the "not normal" growth in my head a bit vague-looking, but determined that I had a small tumor--a papyloma--growing next to one of my ventricles, a small body in the brain that regulates spinal fluid balances in the head. Needless to say, they didn't let me go sing those seven last words (or they might have been, I guess).
I got shipped to another hospital (one that will work on you even when you don't have insurance, which--remember?--I didn't) and got hooked up with my neurosurgeon, Dr. Phil Megison, a great guy and--bonus for me--a Baptist. He came to the same conclusion after my MRI (that I had a tumor) and scheduled me for brain surgery that Tuesday.
Brain surgery's not exactly a walk in the park. Normal brains all have basically the same anatomy, but the way they develop (having nothing to do even with the knowledge contained) is more variable than fingerprints. So to say that you're a neurosurgeon and "know" the brain only means that you've seen a rough map of a huge city you've never been in before. Dr. Megison had warned me that this surgery involved penetrating the brain itself--in fact, through the region of the brain that processes speech. There was a reasonable chance I would never be able to sing again.
Now, when you've spent the better part of your life working on something, only to have it jeopardized in so dramatic a fashion, you start to thinking. You think, "Wow, what did I do to deserve this?" or "Wow, that Mrs. Smith, she sure did know what she was talking about." (Remember? From high school?) Fortunately, I didn't have enough time to really dwell on these issues. I was calm, cool, and collected. "God," I said, "I guess you're trying to get my attention. Well, it worked."
I remember that morning walking around the hospital before my surgery, just to say I was doing something before my brain was violated (well, actually, the growth had already done that, but more violated). I remember getting dropped on the gurney, wheeled into a waiting room, then the operating room, then plopped on the table; someone saying, "This is going to make you a little woozy" (or "tired," or "sleepy," or something, I dunno, I was already zonked out).
The next memory I had was sometime Tuesday night seeing Joy and (I think) Mom and Dad (?), and Dr. Megison. Apparently I had already been awake and asked for my intubation be removed, but my first memories never included having that thing stuck in me. In fact, Dr. Megison's preoccupation with maintaining my vocal cords made him choose to fit me with a child's pipe (less trauma on the folds). I don't even remember being hoarse.
On one of his visits to interrupt my sleep (we didn't want to be slipping into a coma or anything), Dr. Megison informed me that he'd had to get some assistance from another doctor in his practice--I had had an aneurysm, not a tumor. "It's like a balloon in your head," he told me. Of course, I knew what an aneurysm was, but the word sounded strange. In fact, all the words everyone was saying sounded strange.
The trip through my speech processes basically upset my vocabulary. It was like being an operator in front of an old-fashioned switchboard: every word was at a specific address, but they had all up and moved without telling me where! I knew I knew the words I was hearing, but couldn't quite lock on to what people were saying. Well, scary, yeah, but the body's an amazing thing. My vocabulary was probably 50% re-knit before I left (fully recovered within three weeks).
So I'm laying there, looking up at the ceiling after having been moved from recovery to ICU, and just weeping. Maybe the drugs, maybe fatigue. Maybe because I was just grateful. Not so much to be alive; I mean, sure, but more because God saw fit to teach me a wonderful lesson (sounds kind of demented, huh?). "Michael," I remember Him telling me, "you can continue to do things, engineer your own life in the ways you think are best, and this is what I have to do to get you back to where I can use you. Or you can let me do what I want with your life, and I don't have to be so drastic, just to get your attention."
Does this mean God won't let bad things happen to us when we are doing what He wants? No, I may still get an aneurysm. But trust me--it won't be because I wasn't looking for His will! What a great lesson: God is completely omnipotent, and completely sovereign. Nothing happens without his knowledge and permission, and everything that happens to those of us who are His, happen for our ultimate good and his ultimate glory. That's worth taking to the bank, folks. That's worth dying for.
Well, needless to say, I didn't die. I just found myself open to God's will--FINALLY. Joy and I followed His calling to Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary to get the ministry training I knew I needed but couldn't get in Chattanooga. He has blessed us with many ministry opportunities, relatively good health (hey, I ain't having headaches!), and a new son!
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." --Jeremiah 29:11-13, NIV