The Sunday Spell

I don’t sing anymore like I used to. I’ve just been too busy. But yesterday in church, I could hear the different parts in all the music and the nostalgia kicked in.

When I was 15 or 16, my family started attending Blessed Sacrament Church. There were four parishes in our town, and this one seemed to fit us the best. I went to ten o’clock mass and that is when I heard them. They were a four part choir, singing in the front of the church, and singing beautifully.

I had been in high school choir, but we could not produce something like this. Our guys did not have the deep baritones that were required to produce this superior sound. Heck, half of them didn’t have facial hair. And our girls had nice voices, but they were just that, little girl voices. They weren’t the big power house voices you hear singing opera. They were light and airy, like gauze floating in the breeze.

I was sitting in one of the back pews so I couldn’t see over their heads to the choir. The only thing I could see was a petite lady who would occasionally climb up on a step so the choir could see her as she directed them. And I listened. And I ENJOYED church that morning. I, a high school student, a teenager, with an attitude and a smart ass mouth, had liked church. I had never experienced mass like that before and I was hooked.

I wanted to join. One simple phone call was all it took and I was in. When I showed up for practice, I was surprised. The choir I had heard singing was a hodge-podge of men and women, mostly older. And I was the only high school person. They welcomed me like I was a long, lost friend. There was no competition. They accepted me for who I was and our voices blended together in unison and later delved into their respected parts.

It was not always so Pollyanna either. Some of the music was tough. Some music didn’t have the parts written down. Most of the choir members who were there new all the parts by heart on the old hymns and they didn’t need the music. I quickly adapted and I learned the parts by heart.

I remember working and working and working on certain rhythms that the men in particular had trouble getting. Some of these songbirds were 70 plus years old. They just couldn’t get the beat sometimes. Or the notes. The choir director was fit to be tied some evenings. And then, like magic, on Sunday morning the whole choir would pull it off and the music would work.

Which brings me back to the present. The church we attend now sings many of the songs I learned way back when. I could hear all the parts. I could see my old choir director cueing us in when we needed to begin. I think to myself, “We would have sang this slower” or “I think we would have picked up the tempo a bit”. Regardless, that time in the church choir was a magical time.


P.S. I have learned a lesson the hard way. I had a childhood mentor die a few months ago and I didn’t get a chance to tell her how much she made a difference in my life. This blog is in honor of Myrna Sullivan, the now retired liturgical director at Blessed Sacrament. She may not know it, but she taught me to love music. Thank you Songbird!