What does Christmas mean anymore?
This year for me, it means the stuff that living life has given me.
Tonight, I sang a glorious Lessons and Carols service with my new-found church choir. Before the service began, as we sat up in the loft, I took a moment and looked around at every other choir member. I looked at my section...I looked at all the basses, the altos, the tenors. I looked at every face and I was grateful that I had found a choir that was good--no, better--than most choirs at churches, and that I was again finding my voice.
Of course, singing again has been fraught with self-doubt...will my voice be as good as it was? Will my fellow singers appreciate my presence? Will I fit into a new church family? Can I still read music?
The answers to all of the questions and worries I had was yes. Without a doubt.
And tonight, as the service progressed from "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" to "There is No Rose" to "Ave Maria," one of the experiences I had hoped for the most in my life for the last ten years came to pass. Gloriously.
The best Christmas present I could have ever hoped for was singing again. I was grateful for the chance, grateful to my director for accepting me, and grateful for the Episcopalian Church.
It calmed me and eased my worldly worries about jobs and marriage and family, and as a singer with nowhere to go and no song to sing for almost ten years, I was finally whole.
Dear Santa...thank you for tonight. Thank you for the choir.
