"Look, our name is on the church calendar to sing on Wednesday," I remarked to my husband recently. (There is a special song on the program for every service at our church, and many people sing, no matter their level of talent.) Howard and I used to sing together at church when we were teenagers, but never as we grew older, except for the times I sang along with him at nursing home services. Howard sings occasionally, and also pinch-hits as song leader when needed. When we have our singspirations at church, I usually do readings.
But a few months ago, our name was on the list to sing for a service. There was one appealing little song we knew, so we took the plunge and received many kind comments. Now we might sing once a month or so, if we can find a song in my voice range, which is pretty limited. We practiced a song for Wednesday, "Beulah Land," a touching, poignant song by Squire Parsons, (which always reminded me of my mother, whose name was Beulah).
Then last Sunday, our song service was suddenly infused with new life when a new, electrifying voice from a visitor was heard, bringing smiles and the turning of heads to identify the source of this blessing. It turned out to be from a friendly lady who said she loved our church! She was there again Wednesday night, and I heard the pastor say to her from the platform, "Would you favor us with a song tonight? We have the Summers on the schedule, but you can sing, too!"
What? Oh, well, at least we would probably sing first, because that would be a hard act to follow, so to speak! Not! She sang first, and when our turn came, I half-seriously told the pastor we would take a raincheck. "No, no, you're not going to get out of it that easily," he insisted. I followed my husband to the platform, getting a sip from his water bottle sitting on the seat while he donned his guitar.
I was shocked as he took the microphone and said, "Well, all I know is we've gotta keep traveling on," going into a rousing rendition of "I Feel Like Traveling On," motioning for me to join him. I shook my head and pointed to our song sheet, but that didn't deter him. I tried to find his key and falteringly attempted to help, and finally he stopped and strummed our song. I was still kind of numb, but we got through it, to the small gatherings' polite applause.
Then the pastor announced his sermon title, "Bitter is Bad, but Best is Better." He took his text from Hebrews 12:14-15, which says, "Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord: Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God: lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled." I agreed with all the points of his sermon, yet my embarrassment on the platform kept plaguing my thoughts.
I managed to not say anything in reproach to my husband on the way home, but I think he noticed I was pretty quiet. All night, less-than-charitable thoughts toward him surfaced, despite the sermon on bitterness we had heard. I remembered the time we had gotten up to sing and he impulsively skipped a verse, leaving me floundering. I would never sing with him again! I vowed.
Well, my husband was extra nice the next day, taking me to lunch and shopping. How could I stay mad? He was probably just as rattled as I was. I might have to amend my decision to add, "at least not for very long time!"
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