I could have stayed home. I had plenty to do on a beautiful Sunday. A travel writer is coming Monday night to stay with us. Naturally, we want our bed and breakfast to make the best impression possible. And a cold, wet weather pattern was scheduled to move in later that day--yesterday.
But I had administrative duties to attend to. And Palm Sunday kicks off Holy Week. So we went to our little church in the country.
It was a pleasant enough service. Life-long friends sat throughout the pews. The children marched in, waving palm branches. We laughed during Bob's levity-filled announcements. We reverently interceded for sick folks on our prayer list.
We have a small, but dedicated choir. But, yesterday, Wendy our choir director sang a solo. This is always a real treat, for her voice is powerful and sweet and sure. And she launched into "The Holy City." Now, I knew why I'd gone to church. See, my father sang many solos at our church during his lifetime. "The Holy City" is one of the most memorable. And Mrs. Stubblefield would play the stirring piece to perfection. She had to be more than perfect to match his sometimes-varying tempo. To make yesterday's moment sweeter, her two daughters were in the choir.
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your gates and sing ...." Wendy's soaring notes caressed every inch of our sanctuary's cathedral ceiling. And Svetlana's piano accompaniment was right there for every beat. And my full heart was right there as well.
I remembered a poem I'd written, called "My Daddy Sang."
...In the wedding for a loved one,
weaving music to the mem'ry,
crowning hope for rich tomorrows
Kentucky Home and Holy City,
For His Eye Is on the Sparrow,
and Let Me Call You Sweetheart
...In my heart and in my mind,
where Daddy sings
today it rings.
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