I looked behind me and there he sat, his head about level with the top of the pew, nestled in between two other tenors.
So, I have not forgotten about this writing. But I haven't sat down to it at all since we've returned from our sabbatical, which is a shame because there have been so many things to tell. I think it was more difficult than I had anticipated it would be: this country-dweller-at-heart returning to the steady drone of trains and traffic, constant movement and steady stimulus. I notice the serenity of the park, I do, and I enjoyed the crunch of the fall leaves under my feet as much as ever. And yet, it's taken more effort to transition back to our Vancouver routine than I had thought it would be.
But the moment I turned around to see him sitting on his own last night, I realized: this is home for him. It's where he was born, where he is growing up. How do you raise a kid in the city when you didn't grow up in one yourself?
And then we turn to these old hymns and I wonder the same thing... how can we sing these old songs we didn't write, jotted down hundreds of years ago, thousands of miles away?
But we did sing, and we still do. We sang, a bit cautiously at first, finding our way through the parts. And then somehow, it all came together and I saw the pianist's eyebrows go up slightly as he played the last note: he nodded a quick approval to the director and there was satisfaction in the air. We had sung well, from the bottom of our hearts and it was so good. Our shoulders relaxed, up and down the pews, and we sighed happily after we captured the twirl of black dots on the page and interpreted them as delicate harmonies. Delicious.
And the old, old words were like home-coming in our mouths. Even the lines written oceans away and centuries ago took root again in this place yesterday. I glanced at my young son two rows behind me, and then back to aging, grey hymnal, the one we are about to replace, and I hope, hope, hope: please keep singing.
