I didn't agree with our choirmaster, but he had already choosen me to be the leading soprano for Sunday Mass.
“He knows I can't sing, why does he want to embarrass me?” I complained to my cousin, on our way back from rehearsal.
She however found the whole situation amusing and laughed all the way home. She was the first to announce to everyone who would be singing the psalm at Mass the next day.
At first, everyone was surprised when they heard her, but then they burst out laughing.
“What kind of wickedness is this?”, my sister said.
“What did you do to your choir master? I'm sure he's taking his revenge”, joked my elderly brother as they all laughed again.
The only person who tried not to laugh was my mother.
“Bring me the psalm, let me see”, she said. I handed her the copy, which contained the notes as well.
“It's very simple, you'll be able to sing it”. She said with an assuring smile.
And so I, my mum, and everyone at home gathered in the sitting room as we practiced the psalm over and over again.
Singing alone was not my strong suit, as I usually did backup singing.
So I was mixing up notes and keys, raising my voice when I was supposed to bring it down, and switching from one key to another with a different pitch.
Everybody else later retired to bed, but I stayed awake for several hours, trying to avoid the embarrassment that awaited me in the morning. I didn't even realize when I fell asleep.
On Sunday morning, I woke up earlier than usual, I checked the time and it was 3 a.m.
Anxiety and fear wouldn't let me sleep like I usually do on weekends. So I picked up my copy of the Psalm and started practicing it again.
It felt like my prayers weren't working because, before falling asleep, I had prayed for a beautiful voice and the grace to sing the psalm well. I even prayed for the night to last longer. But looking at it, there was no difference in my voice, and Sunday was already here.
I didn't forget to drink a glass of warm water that morning before joining my family at the church.
I was very scared, and so were my siblings. After all, if I messed up, it would affect them too—I'm their sister.
Throughout our journey to the church, they kept imagining different scenarios.
"What if your voice refuses to come out when you climb the pulpit?" my younger brother asked.
“Just come down if you can't sing it. Nobody will beat you. It will be better than standing there to cry”, said my Cousin, whose voice is not in any way better than mine.
She had suggested that I stay back from church, but my mom didn't agree.
I couldn’t join in their chattering for I was lost in my own thoughts, I was already consumed by the weight of the upcoming moment.
After the first reading, the commentator announced,
"The response for today's psalm is
The church repeated it twice. Then he said, "I will now call on the soloists to make their way to the altar."
I wasn't sure if I heard him clearly because my head was already in the clouds, and I couldn't even walk properly.
But I faked confidence. I kept my shoulders straight and held my head high as I walked towards the altar. No one knew the emotional struggle I was going through.
I kept repeating to myself that I could do it.
"God, please, I'll do anything for you if you help me this time," I prayed silently as I climbed the pulpit.
I was the only one up there, while the other soloists from the alto, bass, and tenor parts were down below.
The organist tuned the song, and I took over.
I tried my best to calm myself, but my hand betrayed my confidence. It was shaking noticeably, causing the sheet of music in my hand to shake as well.
I started with a very low voice, then bit by bit I let it blend with that of the other singers. Before I knew it, I was enjoying the song, my voice came out calmer and clearer, and the melodious sound filled the air…
As I sang, my eyes searched the congregation and met with that of my family. They were all looking at me.
My sister gave me a silly smile, while my brother gave me a thumbs up. My cousin was grinning from ear to ear.
Then my eyes looked past them and settled on my mom, her happiness was written all over her face. I was glad I didn't embarrass her, not after all her effort.
I then looked at my Choirmaster, he was nodding his head, a clear indication that I was doing a great job.
Nothing could describe the joy in my heart.
For the first time in a long time I was so proud of myself.
I sang with all my heart to impress the one who gave me the voice, and grace to be on that pulpit.
However, my hands didn't stop shaking until I finished singing and climbed down.
After mass, my fellow choristers and friends congratulated me, "Well done! We were worried about you." they said.
My choir master didn't give me any credit, instead, he told me, "You'll sing again next Sunday."
I didn't think much of it, knowing he was kidding.
My journey home with my family was a cheerful one. It felt like we had won a trophy.
We later prepared a delicious lunch, and sat around the dining table joyfully, re-telling the whole story as we ate.
Made with Love 💕
