The Whirlwind, the Eye Wall, and the Still, Small Voice

The SRYC with Mr. Paul French before the big event

After driving the choir home yesterday, I have woken up to many tasks to put the trip to rest---taking back the rental car, cleaning the bus, topping off the bus tank, keying receipts, turning in a few receipts, putting binders away, sorting music, editing, processing and uploading video, audio, and pics from the final rehearsals and Evening prayer, but...

Right now, I feel a little reflective.

Almost a full year ago, I chose a festival from the many offerings of Pueri Cantores. Simultaneously, the festival chose us. Everything since then has been this endurance race of fundraising, problem-solving, and practicing and more problem-solving to try and get us to Chicago as a choir and experience this one-of-a-kind event for God.

I'm happy to report that we did our job admirably. We showed up prepared, we worked hard, we obeyed the rules, and listened to and watched our conductor.

Sitting on the floor of the convention hall, in the empty array of 3,000 seats, watching the littlest of the children wide eyed at the lights, the scale, the massive responsibility of the moment, I noticed our choir. Some were pensive, some wide eyed with terror, and one especially, looked out at the sea of white chairs with a definite mistrust. What would happen? Would we sing well? Would we be embarrassed? Would someone see us struggling? Would they like us?

As the hall filled, and I prepared to record video and audio, I worried about our Claire. How would she hold up? The pressure was enormous. Mr. French, our conductor was only able to rehearse the intercessions one time through at the very end of the very last rehearsal, and only briefly. She had, from the beginning, been very concerned about getting the words "for the continued success of the ministerial work of the National Association of Pastoral Musicians, and the American Federation Pueri Cantores...." chanted properly and understood by all. She was understandably at that point worried that something might go wrong. She really just wanted to be a regular kid and sing with the big good group of honor choirs and vanish into the back row with the blue waves of light and architectural white sculptures of fabric behind us on the stage. She so much wanted to do a good job for Mr. French, for me, for the SRYC.

The night before, the choir and Mr. French had been outside playing rough and tumble, late into the misty warm Chicago night. Mr. French threw frisbees and footballs and ran around with the kids until well after dark, and they came back to the dorms sweaty, happy, and telling stories of fireflies and sports injuries, laughing and playing and putting the hard hard hard road aside for just a little bit. They were back from the darkness of the morning, back to being teenagers, back to being the SRYC.

But 24 hours later, on that stage, they stood tall, proud to sing this great music, and the one giant towering soprano, my angel, in the front row by necessity in a sea of fun-sized smaller choristers, stood to intone the psalm and canticle all alone at the ambo. She did so flawlessly.

Then the storm began, that which we had all worried about, that I had been most afraid of. We stood for the intercessions, John Romeri played the tone, and the Bishop intoned something completely different and in a different key. It seemed like she'd be okay, she reset the pitch, got the first one out, but because the key was now off a little, the expected organ accompaniment was not to be, and she was there, leading three thousand professional musicians in chanted prayers a capella and freaked out. Though each first half of the tone went well, she could no longer hold in her mind the second part of the tone, and even with Mr. French's attempts to rescue her, it was not to be. However, and this is the lesson for all young musicians who make big public mistakes:

She did not run.

She did not quit.

She DID make sure the words were as clear as possible, and that the tone she could manage right was pristine. She DID keep her composure and poise. She did NOT give up.

When you hear the sound files and see the video, you will note the shaking sound and the camera shot becomes strange and unfocused. That is the choir director who became mommy all over again, unable to compose myself as I watched Claire cry to herself in her seat on stage. Fortunately, there was only one more song and a blessing and we were safe again from the random, uncontrollable, impossible to prepare or practice for things that go wrong during any given liturgy.

As the choir came up after it was done, and formed this wall, this giant fortress around our girl, hugging and reassuring and trying to protect her, I was struck by the love we have for one another. Through crazy hard work, and emotionally out of control exhausted stupid yuck, and the occasional descent into mean girls, we have survived as a family. This is the strengthof the SRYC. We are a family. We forgive, we protect, we sing together and we work.

What they probably will only realize when they SEE the video and/or HEAR the audio is how beautiful the service was. How powerful and amazing to pray to God with our voices and to have a congregation that not only sang, but was deafening and in four part harmony.

I will process the files today or tomorrow and put them up for all the world to see and hear. Be proud of your choir, St. Richard's, for they have served you well in the big broad world.

God Bless all singers, and God bless these in particular: Claire, Kaitlyn, Katie, James, Allison, Sarah, Madeline, Chantele, Trey, Scott, Mollie, Emily, and Sean. Cantate Domino!