The Church of Nancy

My neighbors to the south of me are faithful to making it to the Catholic Church almost every Sunday. My Lutheran neighbors to the north aren’t even Chreasters, people who only attend on Christmas and Easter. They only attend for marrying and burying. I attended the Church of Nancy.

Nancy is, in my opinion, the best preacher I have ever met. Her sermons are the music she picks for us to sing every Sunday. Nancy can take a gospel song and turn it into a spiritual moment. She knows the back story to every song and then some.

Church holds meaning of different theology and practice for all who attend. It doesn’t matter under which roof we find ourself, the core to any religion is the same.

We are taught to be humble. Since last October, I sat next to some amazing voices. High notes are harmonized to the heavens and the low bass of the men reverberate deep into the soul. I can’t sing. Period. Humbly I sang with a voice that tried to hide among those who did.

Responsibility of getting up every Sunday at five-thirty to make it to choir practice by eight forty-five, has served me well. Even if I can’t sing the greatest, letting Nancy down just wasn’t an option. After all, she took a chance on me.

Nancy sees the best in everything and everyone. Generous with her music attributes, she invited me to her home and for the price of a homemade apple crisp, she showed me how to hit those high notes like everyone else.

Loving your neighbor is easy to do when you are in a choir. People who sing are some of the most amazing people I have ever met.

Lost sheep are we when Nancy hands out new music and none of us hit the right key on the first, second or even the third attempt. She finds our lost voices and guides us back to the safety of her tuned piano.

The last five months have been a blessing to me. When the news came that it was coming to an end immediately; I was devastated.  It wasn’t so much that we were no longer going to be singing, even though that sucks; it was the reason why we couldn’t sing. (I can feel the tears rising up as I write this.) Our beloved choir director has been told by her doctor that she has pressing health concerns. She needs to give her body the time to heal. No choir. Period. Well, doctors know medicine, but they do not know Nancy.

Nancy told her doctors that we had one more song to sing on the following Sunday. She told the doctors she was going to choir and that was that. We all sat there last Sunday morning nervous with our watchful eyes on Nancy, not for cues on our singing, but for the cues that she was okay. Nancy means that much to us. Singing my heart out last Sunday, I did it for Nancy because she gave me more than just a voice for singing. Nancy gave me a voice of self-determination. Anything is possible.

We sang Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning. A fitting tune if you ask me. Be ready because we never know what is coming. Last fall, I was lost. I didn’t know what was coming. Nancy, my dear sweet Nancy, singing in your choir gave me more than just a chance to learn how to blend in with the other singers. You gave me the chance to hear my voice; I have learned how to listen to me. I will always be indebted to you.

I could not go to UU today. I woke up like I always do, five-thirty sharp. I put on my Sunday best just to go nowhere. I was not ready to go and not sing. Perhaps, next week. My church just isn’t the same without Nancy.