When Last Did You Feel Smaller Than a Flea?

I like to sing.

That does not mean I am good at it. No, I enjoy it, and analogous to so many other exploits in my life, I always strived to go higher and better than my natural abilities would allow.

I would’ve loved to hit a super high note in clear, window-shattering resonance. I would even have settled for something less spectacular in a non-vibrating melodic and astonishing tone.

Sadly, even in my heyday with lots of practice, it was neither of the above and as I aged, my abilities dwindled. My love of coffee with creamer dealt my voice the death knoll. And anyone who has sung, or still sings, will know how a minor ingredient in the dairy family can leave an excellent little film on your vocal cords and create havoc.

I had to accept my singing days were history, and I now troll, unhappily, in the middle section of a keyboard.

Still, I love to sing. So, what to do.

Join the church choir, my friend said. Nope, gone half the year, can’t commit, and anyway, my voice is not what it can/should be. And I’m not giving up coffee with creamer, not at my age with guilty pleasures like rich Kerrygold Pure Irish butter, creamy Belgian Godiva chocolate, and sinful French Camembert cheese decreasing by the day.

The next best solution was to sit as close to the choir as possible and sing along with them.

I picked my spot with great care. Mid-choir. The tail end of the second sopranos and the beginning of the altos. Or close enough to some configuration like that. It all depends on the choirmaster.

All the fun and none of the commitment. And if the sopranos went high beyond my present abilities, I would either shut up or hum with the altos.  I hate doing that and admitting defeat.  I’d prefer to squeak quietly in my head what I so desperately would love to belt out.

But there was more!

This is Florida, and our church council ensures that we have effective AC up on high. After an hour of freezing air directed at me, I can’t wait to get out of the church and can’t remember half of what the good priest had said.

Frugality is the name of the game for the pews next to the choir. No overhead AC there so, l’endroit parfait.

And off to church, my righteous satisfied person went, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

A lesson was lurking, waiting for the right moment. I didn’t sense any disturbance in the mystic morning atmosphere of clear skies and threadbare clouds. I didn’t see the snowy white banner bobbing by on the morning breeze with the ginormous black lettering – –

Who do you think you are, looking for that perfect spot?

I like going to church early and expect it will be as quiet as the grave when I walk in, trusting other parishioners have the same mindset. Sadly, it doesn’t seem to be the case nowadays.

I was raised that you chitchatted outside, but you shut up once you stepped into the nave.

But people seem to think this is an excellent time to exchange snippets of gossip and continue to talk, albeit sotto voice. Still, it carries, and meditation and prayer often become impossible.

And the worst offenders are the choir! This is a good time for some choir members to exchange last-minute thoughts and ruffle and shuffle all their sheet music into the proper order.

I was already in my pew, on my knees in my new perfect place, and in earnest prayer for the war in Ukraine when I heard the choir come in.

Such was the commotion that I lost my peace and had to look up.

A little tableau was unfolding.

In line with the pew, I had hand-picked, right across the aisle and on a slightly raised level, sat a group of either family members or close friends. In the end, and close to me, a rather large lady ambulates with a walker. Now seated, she shifted and shuffled, dug in her capacious purse, dropped her music, needed help to get organized, and could not perform any of these activities without commenting in a normal speaking voice.

Next to her was a small, wizened-looking female, constantly seeing to the wellbeing of the large and loud lady. And another one, older, taller, quiet, and looking on, next to her.

I went back to praying. Stuck my fingers into my ears but couldn’t avoid being aware of the activity nearby. I gave up, turned around, and glared.

Yup, nasty, I know, but I glared. You’re in church, I wanted to say. Can’t you keep it down?

The large lady had pushed over the stand in front of her, and more brouhaha ensued. Other choir members rushed over to help.

I looked on, helpless and frustrated. All thought of War and Peace” fled from my mind, and I considered getting up and retreating to another part of the church, giving up my treasured proximity to the choir and desire to sing while not being heard.

And then, like light bursting into darkness, the wizened little lady looked up, caught my eye, and gave me the sweetest, most heart-rending smile.

I felt my own face open into a smile, and I berated myself for being an immature, selfish, hypocritical rear end of an ass. Oh yes, and bitterly ashamed as well.

Who do I think I am, after all! I guess it’s off to the Confessional for me.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness (1 John 1:19)