That Voice

The pianist was playing “Summer’s Dream” [C. Rollin] as the prelude to the worship service. I was twisted enough in my chair, to notice the arrival of someone directly behind me, with a leg extending out of a garish pair of orange shorts and a sockless foot embedded in an equally garish orange tennis shoe. Gender of the owner not certain. I didn’t want to appear gawkish. But there were certain things that triggered that inherent question that happens everytime with me. Please, Dear God, did you give this person the gift of being gay too?

My field of vision was such that I could see that the leg moved a little at times. Just had to be male . . . with an extremity extended in a way like that.

The service progressed; I got engrossed in other things.

And then the opening hymn.

I started to sing. A set of words unfamiliar to me, but set to the music of “Brother James Air.” Classic Welsh. Classic Celtic. And I had to stop singing.

That voice. That articulate second-tenor voice. The enunciation. The phrasing. The accenting of sustained vowels on the beat of the music. The richness. The timbre. The perfect pitch. That song could have lasted for hours.

More of the service. Some funny things about love. For the sermon title was “How Do I Love Thee?” And it wasn’t the kind of sermon most in Christendom would expect. For in this sermon, the “Thee” was your partner, your friend, your spouse, your parent, your child. A humanist kind of sermon where the principles of true Christianity are relevant in the here and now.

And then the closing hymn. And that voice again.

Finally, The Congregational Closing: “Let us go in peace, believe in peace, and create peace in our lives and in the world. Amen.”

Now, with the service over, it was respectable to be gawkish. I could turn around. I did.

Must have been at least 6’2”. Rich olive brown complexion. Sunken brown puppy-dog eyes. Shadow of a beard. Closely cropped mat of soft black hair.

Our eyes caught. Some blurting out of common greeting, the perfunctory thing to do.

And then it stumbled right out of me. “I could listen to you sing for hours on end.”

He bent over, lowered his ear like he didn’t really catch what he thought he might have heard.

“I could listen to you sing for hours on end.”

He straightened up and blushed. It was obvious he was taken off guard. Now I was freaking.

“You have a beautiful voice. I sure hope that it is just not a hobby or something, but that you do something really serious with it.”

That simply had to sound stupid. I’m now the one getting rattled. Into what mess have I gotten myself.

But he was quick to respond.

“I used to sing in a choir,” and still smiling like the Cheshire cat, he continued, “But I do speak. I just got a job as radio announcer, at . . . “ and he rattled off a radio station’s call sign and frequency. “On the weekends, only on the weekends . . .”

I made another nonsensical remark to confirm and validate my feelings about his wonderful gift of voice and his venue for expressing it. And I stammered some more about how beautiful his singing was to listen to.

He stood tall, face radiant, blushing, smiling, stammering.

“Thank you for telling me that.” And he swallowed hard, nodded in affirmation. “That makes me feel so wonderful. Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

The Refectory Manager