The weather forecast for today is “light rain,” but sitting at my desk in this early dark, I can hear the wind howling, and whatever is hitting the windowpanes sounds solid, icy. And, just now, rare in these parts, a flash of lightning and rolling thunder punctuated the sky.
It’s a church morning, and after our first fine weather in a small eternity, it’s hard to imagine venturing out in a storm. Well, that’s always hard. But it feels a little mean: Fooled you! Still winter, after all!
Back in the olden days after I left the church, for a long while I felt every Sunday like I was playing hooky. Then the novelty wore off, and I only occasionally thought about church at all. But sometimes I wondered—why? What compels a person to assemble every week? Is it piety? Or something more basic?
Returning to church life after a twenty-year absence is a strange thing. I am part of a different demographic now. No longer a young mother of young children. Just a generic, invisible middle-aged woman.
Although, I’m one of the younger singers in the choir, and less invisible. I have a big voice. Last Sunday when I was the only soprano, Virginia, from the altos, joined me for “moral support.” She kept slipping back into the alto part, which impressed me, because it’s much easier to sing the melody line. She was bright and open and friendly, asking about my work and life. All the choir folk are friendly, but mostly these last months, I’ve been quietly observing.
I’ve been curious about a particular gentleman who sings bass. The rest of the singers are gentle and deferential with him. He occasionally loses his place, gets confused. Last week he lost his balance and the other fellas immediately reached out to stabilize him.
This gentleman came a little late one Sunday last month, sneaking into the back row. One of the other basses said, “You’re looking sharp today.”
Naturally, all of us ladies in the front row turned to look.
“Very sharp!” said Ellen.
And we all added murmurs of approbation.
He was wearing a wine red shirt, silver tie, and suit jacket, black.
When he realized we were all looking at him, he inhaled deeply, leaned back, and with eyes half closed, said, “I like to do my part.”
Our sharp dresser seldom speaks, but when he does, it’s in a monotone. Almost glum. He has a whispery speaking voice. And during the passing of the peace, he holds out his right hand as if to shake, and then pulls me into an embrace, pressing his cheek against mine. When I was younger, I likely would have found this mildly upsetting, but in context it is just right. Surprising at first, but deeply moving.
At choir practice the Thursday after our sharp dresser arrived doing his part, when we opened to the last hymn, he looked at the music and then droned softly, “Well. This one’s a rouser.”
And it was.
There’s just enough light now this morning to see that there was, in fact, hail. The wind has died down, and I hear birds in the garden. Time for porridge, and then choir. The rousing hymns, the kindness of the choristers, the momentary press of a warm cheek—these are perfectly adequate reasons to venture out.
This is beautiful. The sharp dresser reminds me of something out of Franny and Zooey. And as a long-time alto, I can attest to the fact that it becomes very difficult to sing the melody!
I read Franny and Zooey in a class with Bob Albertson (of Pacific Rim Program fame), back in the olden days. I cannot remember one single thing about it! I’ll have to read it again–I probably still have my copy.
I was in that class, too. I love that book.
That’s lovely. When we miss a Sunday my whole week feels “off.” I love singing even though I’m terrible, but I picked our church for its music — brilliant choir, organist, and so on. Wish I could visit you and your wonderful Jesuits and hear you!
Amy and I have discussed out trip out to visit you. I’ll make sure we’re there over a weekend so we can sing our little lungs out together at your church.