Singin’ in the Comeback Choir*

When I started my “I need to recreate my life” campaign and went to the desperate measures of seeking out the Unitarian Church, I knew that chances were it was merely a temporary aberration. I went to one church service. I went to one choir practice. And I was hooked. The first fix is free.

The following Sunday we—the choir that now had me in it—performed. I was hooked more.

Music for me probably started in the cradle. Ours was a model dysfunctional American family, but in retrospect I can see so many cool things that my parents did that more than counter-balanced their wrong turns. My folks are just not what anyone would traditionally associate with the word “cool”—then or now. But I think about how my mom played accordion, my dad played the violin, and they both played piano—and they were just awful at all of these pursuits. My dad’s little joke was “If you can’t sing good, sing loud.” Except where some of our family musical abilities were concerned, it wasn’t exactly a joke. And now I think this was one of their great gifts to us—that freedom to make and enjoy music without the crippling burden of having to be perfect or even good in order to fully participate.

When I was a little kid my two sisters and I would sing while we washed and dried dishes, and I probably learned to harmonize before I learned to tie my shoes. On vacations we would sing in the car when we weren’t arguing. We sang in church. I consider the Church of the Nazarene to be an incredibly destructive force that probably should have come under scrutiny for its carnage to the human psyche way before the Muslims got a bad rep—but by golly, their music was great! I was in both school and church choirs throughout junior high and high school. I even made Oklahoma All State Choir my sophomore year. Once I started college, my choir days were mostly over. But that didn’t keep me from singing.

During Carrie's formative years, she would be embarrassed and try to shush me when I would start singing, which was often and anywhere. I had to remind her that public humiliation of my progeny was not only my right but my duty as a parent. Friends have always been much more forgiving and even seem to delight in my tendency to burst into song at the least or no provocation. Their enjoyment seems to escalate in direct proportion to the number of drinks they’ve had.

Now, in addition to karaoke and impromptu singing, I’m back in choir. Church choir, no less. Dan, our director, strikes the perfect balance of expecting excellence from us, while recognizing that we’re an amateur volunteer group. We sing great music that’s a stretch, and it sounds amazing. Well, maybe not the first time or two through it…

Thursday evening I was at a going away party for one of my co-workers, and when I mentioned that I had to leave to go to choir practice, our receptionist started belly-laughing. Then she looked at me and said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?” It took a lot to suspend her disbelief. It’s true folks—every Thursday night as I go to church choir practice, there are frost warnings in hell. I love defying the odds. For now my money is on the Jewish axiom: God respects me when I work—but he loves me when I sing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*With apologies to Bebe Moore Campbell