Church

I'm feeling awkward in the front row of the church, looking at the notes across the page with a vague understanding of how to read the music.

My only exposure to music:  Middle school band playing an alto saxophone.

I only advanced one chair in the ratings for the B level band group in my whole two years.   I showed no natural talent and my parents did not fork out money for the lessons.   And while I lugged that case 1 mile to and from the bus stop and then to each of my six classes during the day (it failed to fit in my locker), I rarely practiced.

I had two band instructors; the first was close to retirement, a man who possessed only a slight spark of enthusiasm for A level students and would provide an automated teaching routine for the B level.  (I'm sure he never knew my name.). And the second was a sassy, young, Latino man with big hair who wore designer jeans, cologne, and platform shoes; as middle school girls we squealed and then giggled at his every movement.  (I'm sure he was the very reason I didn't drop band after my first year.).

My two years of training taught me notes go up and down and we hold some of them longer than others.  But I really can't read the notes in the church hymn book.

The church service alternates between someone reading and the congregation singing. Finally we reach a ritual that I understand; the offerings.   I slide my money into the envelope, seal it, and then place it on the offering tray. I'm excited that I can then recite the Lord's Prayer without looking at the paper.  I know this will make my mom proud.  I place my hand across her back, feel the tortured muscles that twist in directions that don't resemble mine.  We finish up the final prayer.

"Wasn't that lovely?" She says with her permanent smile.

"As long as you didn't hear me sing," I say, just to make her laugh.

"You know how to read music.  You were 5th chair on the saxophone in middle school," she says as if this were a major accomplishment in my life.

I just smile. There's no reason why she should remember it any other way. She probably also thinks I understand the sermons, the stories about the bible.  After all, I did make it through a summer communion program when I was 13.   (With a small set back of being tossed off the church bus for fighting.   I wouldn't give up my seat to Michael Herzog so my sister decked him.).

Now WHO is this Jesus guy?  And why was he important exactly?