afterward Jack would want to discuss the service and the sermon, turning things this way and that, sniffing, pawing, looking for flaws like a cat looks for life in the carcass of a caught mouse. But, I was learning with considerable pain, it was Jack I wanted to please, and Jack I wanted to worship, not God. Any joy I felt was in the touch of Jack beside me, not in the presence of God within me.
Dear God, how forgiving are you toward someone who has become as shortsighted as I have been?
Slowly, weeknights in Amhearst became less terrifying, but weekends held their own special horrors.
And so, on that early September Friday night just after my move, I found myself digging through the trash can for Sunday’s bulletin, which I had just thrown away in my brief cleaning frenzy. I pulled it out and reread it, my attention drawn to the announcement about the bell clinic. I studied the words a few minutes, uncertain.
There had been a bell choir at Penn State, and I’d always itched to play in it. To my ear, bells sound so beautiful—lyrical and somehow angelic. But I’d never had the nerve to audition at school because of the music majors.
Now I nodded decisively, grabbed my purse and ran before I had a chance to change my mind. Maybe the bell choir wasn’t for a marginal musician like me, but at the very least I’d have something to occupy me tonight.
Much to my surprise, there were only about twenty people at the bell clinic, but those who were there were friendly and helpful, especially the woman beside me.
“I’m Maddie Reeder,” she said. “And I have no music sense whatsoever. I just love how the bells sound.”
I had found a friend, though her musical abilities weren’t quite as bad as she indicated. And she could laugh at herself, a trait I appreciated.
As usual, it wasn’t the notes that gave me trouble; it was the rhythms. I concentrated fiercely, and suddenly two hours were gone.
“Practices are every Thursday,” said the man who had introduced himself as Ned Winslow, the church’s music director. “You have to be at every practice. It’s not like a vocal choir where the others in your section can cover for you when you’re absent. If you’re not here, your bells aren’t played. So it’s a commitment.” He smiled at those standing before the tables. “How many of you are interested?”
I bravely raised a hand, and so did Maddie Reeder. About half of the others did, too, and the Faith Bell Choir was born. We premiered the first Sunday in October with an incredibly elementary song, but we impressed the socks off the congregation. We were to play the first Sunday of each month and for special occasions like Christmas and Easter.
By this December Thursday night, I felt I had acquired a few friends as I hung my coat and greeted the other ringers. We were a club, a group who shared a common cause, common experiences and common jokes. I belonged here.
I slipped on a pair of canvas gardening gloves and lifted two shiny brass bells from their red velvet resting places. I carried them carefully to the practice table and laid them down, then returned for two others.
I arranged the B-flat, B, C and C-sharp in an orderly line. On either side of me, people were arranging their bells, ringing them, sorting their music and pulling on their heavy gloves to protect the fold of skin between the thumb and forefinger from the rubbing of ringing the bells.
“All right, folks,” said Ned Winslow. “Turn to the piece we’ll play with the vocal choir Christmas Sunday morning. Merry, note that the arrangement wasn’t written by someone who knows bells. The C and C-sharp are written in the treble clef as with choral or orchestral music. You will want to transfer them to the bass clef.”
I began penciling in the changes and was halfway through the piece when Ned said, “Okay, let’s try it. Merry, just do the best you can.”
I hit my first clunker about the same time I became conscious of someone
Dear God, how forgiving are you toward someone who has become as shortsighted as I have been?
Slowly, weeknights in Amhearst became less terrifying, but weekends held their own special horrors.
And so, on that early September Friday night just after my move, I found myself digging through the trash can for Sunday’s bulletin, which I had just thrown away in my brief cleaning frenzy. I pulled it out and reread it, my attention drawn to the announcement about the bell clinic. I studied the words a few minutes, uncertain.
There had been a bell choir at Penn State, and I’d always itched to play in it. To my ear, bells sound so beautiful—lyrical and somehow angelic. But I’d never had the nerve to audition at school because of the music majors.
Now I nodded decisively, grabbed my purse and ran before I had a chance to change my mind. Maybe the bell choir wasn’t for a marginal musician like me, but at the very least I’d have something to occupy me tonight.
Much to my surprise, there were only about twenty people at the bell clinic, but those who were there were friendly and helpful, especially the woman beside me.
“I’m Maddie Reeder,” she said. “And I have no music sense whatsoever. I just love how the bells sound.”
I had found a friend, though her musical abilities weren’t quite as bad as she indicated. And she could laugh at herself, a trait I appreciated.
As usual, it wasn’t the notes that gave me trouble; it was the rhythms. I concentrated fiercely, and suddenly two hours were gone.
“Practices are every Thursday,” said the man who had introduced himself as Ned Winslow, the church’s music director. “You have to be at every practice. It’s not like a vocal choir where the others in your section can cover for you when you’re absent. If you’re not here, your bells aren’t played. So it’s a commitment.” He smiled at those standing before the tables. “How many of you are interested?”
I bravely raised a hand, and so did Maddie Reeder. About half of the others did, too, and the Faith Bell Choir was born. We premiered the first Sunday in October with an incredibly elementary song, but we impressed the socks off the congregation. We were to play the first Sunday of each month and for special occasions like Christmas and Easter.
By this December Thursday night, I felt I had acquired a few friends as I hung my coat and greeted the other ringers. We were a club, a group who shared a common cause, common experiences and common jokes. I belonged here.
I slipped on a pair of canvas gardening gloves and lifted two shiny brass bells from their red velvet resting places. I carried them carefully to the practice table and laid them down, then returned for two others.
I arranged the B-flat, B, C and C-sharp in an orderly line. On either side of me, people were arranging their bells, ringing them, sorting their music and pulling on their heavy gloves to protect the fold of skin between the thumb and forefinger from the rubbing of ringing the bells.
“All right, folks,” said Ned Winslow. “Turn to the piece we’ll play with the vocal choir Christmas Sunday morning. Merry, note that the arrangement wasn’t written by someone who knows bells. The C and C-sharp are written in the treble clef as with choral or orchestral music. You will want to transfer them to the bass clef.”
I began penciling in the changes and was halfway through the piece when Ned said, “Okay, let’s try it. Merry, just do the best you can.”
I hit my first clunker about the same time I became conscious of someone
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