Perspective, again

I woke this morning feeling slightly achy; I'm trying to find the "right" pillow and I'm failing, because one is too soft and flat while the other is so firm and full-bodied that it actually causes me to slide farther down on the bed's surface until my feet are smashed. To top it off, I stayed up too late—and then the boy was coughing off and on all night, so the mom in me kept waking up to a) make certain the cough never turned into "cough-before-puke" (other parents might also be familiar with such a cough) and b) to make certain that the cough eventually halted. At one point, when I went into his room with medicine, the half-awake child burst into tears and refused to swallow the stuff...

So. Not a restful night. I was just beginning to wander down the woe-is-me path when I remembered where I'd been last evening.

A hospital nearby. In the cancer section.

I have wanted, in past years, to go caroling with members of my church choir. Circumstances never allowed it until last night. I drove to one of the big hospitals just across the river and met some other folks I know (and a few I didn't) so we could sing Christmas carols in the hallways. Our first stop was a quick one: a choir member's father was in one of the rooms, waiting to go have a procedure done. He's been sick for awhile. He's getting sicker. My friend wanted to drop off dinner for her mom, and hoped that a few of us would come with her and sing for him.

We did just that. Martin (not his real name) has no voice to speak of; his throat has been damaged by the cancer. He whispered hello to us; his thin frame was barely concealed under one of those shapeless gowns. The four of us sang a few carols, mostly hymns, and for the last couple of tunes, Martin's wife joined in with her lofty soprano. Martin listened. I think he wept a little. And we joined hands and prayed for him and that family. He thanked us. His daughter, the choir member, thanked us. We hugged her mom when she walked us to the door.

Then we set off to find the larger group of singers, gathering in a separate lobby. We were all rather shaky by then.

The others had mostly arrived, and we were about 15 strong. We took our packets of lyrics and music and made our way into the hallway. Our leader, the organizer, explained that we all needed to sanitize hands, and that if anyone had indications of a cold or other illness, he should don a surgeon's masks before going into anyone's room. We all sanitized, then soberly made our way to a cul-de-sac where a couple of patient doors were partially open.

We began to sing. One woman closed her door (we saw, then, that she was on the phone—oops!) but another fellow asked his wife to open his door a bit more. He requested "Silent Night," and we flipped through pages until we found it and then set off. We found out his name, sang another couple of songs, prayed with them. He was younger than I am. There they sat, smiling with red eyes, a few days before Christmas, in a cancer ward.

We moved down the hall to a different section of the floor. Another patient stood and came to her doorway, then asked if she could sing with us. "Of course! Please!" we said. We launched into "O, Holy Night," our new friend's mouth hidden by a protective mask, her hair shorn to just a centimeter or two. She had a beautiful voice, clear as a bell; she said she missed singing and that this was the first year she hadn't been able to lend her voice to a choir—but here she was! She could still join in and sing with a group.

It's difficult to be in a place like that for an hour or two, let alone to stay there. My eyes were stinging when I left, but at least I got to leave. I wasn't being held captive in a room, or keeping watch over a loved one, or trying to extract information from a doctor or nurse.

Yet, even in that sterile, hushed place where bad news is all too common, there was joy. Many of those people were sincerely thankful, for singing and family and hope. Even in the face of horrible illness, there is always hope. I came away feeling blessed, not just because I love to sing and the patients seemed appreciative, but also because I witnessed people who, in their darkest moments, have come to grips with the truest understanding of what matters, and Who we can rely upon.

Riches come and go, romance can fade, jobs can disappear, and health can fail. This is a fallen world. Our bodies are temporary, weak vessels. But it's Christmas. We have a savior. We have hope, and salvation if we merely ask for it. We are loved and forgiven.

My prayer for you is that you would know in your heart what matters most, and Who loves you most. Those people who are facing disease and death? I'm sure there are some who are bitter, but I glimpsed others who are clinging to Hope. I'm going to think of them, and choose joy. Even when my neck aches and I'm sleepy—especially when that's all that is wrong.

Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown.

Earthly voices

I am not a singer. I’ve never been. Often, my mom has reminisced about singing as a tiny girl, singing with her siblings, even singing on the radio; we've always known she has a pretty alto voice. In high school, my best friend had a lovely voice, too; she fronted the jazz band while I honked away on my giant tenor saxophone—not nearly as intriguing as sultry vocals, I well knew, but it was the best I could do. A couple of people in college told me I was a decent singer, encouraged me to try…but I was so busy being unrestrained and unscheduled at that point in my life, I just didn’t have time to seek out any real singing opportunities, and then I was finished with my degree and all those golden chances had drifted out of reach.

Fast-forward many years, through several embarrassing karaoke attempts and the growing realization that this was not a talent of mine. All that time, I sang in the car, in the shower, to myself. I sang when I knew I wouldn’t offend anyone. I had pretty much abandoned the whole idea, yet in my head was hidden the musical knowledge I’d stored there: piano lessons as a child, 8 long years of band geekery, adoration of symphony and its many instruments, all rolled into a safe corner of my brain to remain intact but unused.

And then, we found our church and began attending regularly.

I won’t lie: the reason I came back after that first week was because of the music. It was just wonderful, inspiring, soul-touching stuff. Sunday after Sunday, I drank it in, and slowly, the dream came alive again. I refused to acknowledge the re-emergence of the dream for many months; the choir was too good, and I could never hang with them. It was enough just to hear the music and add my quiet, dubious voice to the beauty.

And then, one day, it wasn’t enough. I thought to myself, what have I to lose? I can try, right? If I stink, I can live with that—at least I will have given it a shot, and I'll know with certainty. I worked up my nerve and finally called the church to inquire. But. They weren’t currently accepting applicants. I had to wait. They would call me back during open season. (I didn’t like the sound of that at all—open season?!) I bided my time. I figured they’d lose my name, would change their mind, perhaps disband; I almost forgot about the whole thing… Almost.

Months later, they called. I set up a tryout, terrified even as I wrote it in the calendar. The day rolled around and I was literally short of breath. What had I been thinking? I had no right singing with these people. None. The worship leader would immediately label me the sham that I am, order me from the rehearsal room, warn me never to return. I’d be unable to show my face in church ever again.

I reported for my tryout, and lo and behold, the worship leader was very personable and gentle. He asked me what part I thought I should be, and I made my best guess. Then he made me sing “Amazing Grace” while he played along on the piano; I stank up the room, voice quavering, face twitching, plagued by uncertainty and shame.

And then. Grace was exemplified and the kind-hearted, foolish fellow invited me to join choir. I accepted, with much trepidation and insecurity; when rehearsals began in the fall, I sat slumped in my seat, surrounded by seasoned singers. But wait! We began to work our way through a song, and I heard wonderful voices, but also mediocre voices, and even an off-key voice. Some people could read music, but many could not. A few of them could hit every note on the page, but most of them were just like me—with a limited repertoire of tuneful sounds. Why, they were normal people! They were not, as I’d suspected, musical geniuses. These people were everyday people, some of whom could sing amazingly well…and others who really could not sing any better than me. Even more amazing was that as weeks passed, slowly but surely that stash of musical notes, terminology, and symbols began to creep back into my awareness. Now, four years into it, I feel more at ease about my contribution to this wonderful team of voices. And I hear, with amazement and joy every time, how the combined effect of all those varied sounds creates a wonderful sound. Flaws are camouflaged, strengths are heightened; we all become one voice, be it hushed, sweet, jubilant, or victorious—but always grateful.

And it’s a funny thing: when I try to sing in the car, with the radio, along with contemporary music, I still am quite weak. My voice cracks, I can’t hit notes, I make myself hoarse. It’s ugly. But when I’m singing for church, I can sing better. Honestly, I can—it’s not my imagination. When I use my voice for that purpose, to glorify God, my voice is stronger, a little bit more true. I’m still not great, but I can say with certainty that I am my best singing self when I’m belting it out for that awesome audience of One. I wonder if my song-mates have had the same experience. I wonder if they, too, are most melodious while worshipping God through song—when the pressure's off to sound perfect, when it's sufficient to be humble and sincere.

It makes me ponder what other undiscovered abilities we might unleash in ourselves if we could travel beyond our own preconceived notions and just step out in faith. I hope to discover more possibilities, in me and in everyone around me.