The best way to celebrate life is to live it –
and we start anew,
with friends gathered ’round to toast a few
and share stories of full living

the Bard of Lemuria
………………………………………….

THIS VOICE and MORE

It was a large church, but not as large as it pretended. Services were well attended – at least when the choir sang, and even the most boring sermon could be endured to hear the grand organ play. Not at the same time, of course – for the organ was really too grand for the church, and when properly ‘let loose’ no choir could compete. A smaller organ hidden behind the pipes served to help them out.

The giant pipe organ had been carted over the Rockies by wagons and mules – way back about 1886. It was supposed to go to the new cathedral in Sacramento, but wound up here instead when the wagons broke down and winter set in. So, this local church was modified to hold her, with pipes running from the basement to the loft – some as big round as a man’s thigh, others as tiny as a twig – 270 in all filling the entire end of the church. the consol had four tiers and took two people to play – with a third man stocking the steam boiler down below. Magnificent! Of course, today it uses compressed air and can be played at any time – except when the choir sings.

Those castle-spire pipes does make a fine backdrop, though, when the voices ring out – the forty members ringed in a double row behind the consol where the organist sits just for show. And they work hard at it, practicing two nights week; and many folks say they are better than any choir ever heard this side of Salt Lake City. Their range and counterpart was phenomenal – the sound almost having a soul of its own – almost like a strum on a dulcimer – binding solo voices and harmony groups together in a magical weave beyond what even they expected. The choir I mean. Us out in the pews expected the best of everything, else what is church-going for?

A couple of years ago a visitor heard them sing and arranged for their participation in an out-of-state contest for choirs – Choral Jubilee or something. They did really well, third place – with some saying they were not ‘up to snuff’ – nervous maybe. We were all pleased enough, but the choir set about preparing for the next year. All this meant to us was having to hear the same songs over and over again, but with that organ playing some I could endure anything. And they were really good, you know – better than we deserved for certain. I got to go along on the bus the second year.

Well, they won this time, but I have to admit they still didn’t sound as good as back home by the organ – silent though it was – and I began to wonder of the why of it – others too. Me being a reporter and all, I decided to check it out – going to different practices and all. I discover that they did sound different in the practice room. What’s more, they sounded different during a different service! I had always attended the eleven o’clock gathering so that Angie and I could go out to lunch after – but that’s another story. That’s when they normally sang as that was when the Bishop usually made it; but with extra practice needed for the competitions the sang twice or more each Sunday. This meant more lucky parishioners, I guess, but they didn’t get the grand organ, with old James only up to one playing. The nine o’clock service had guitar and flute instead – alright I guess, but hardly the same. Anyways, the choir was wonderful, and no one knew they were getting second best but me – the choir not able to really hear themselves, of course.

I pulled some strings at the news bureau and got some recording equipment set up one Sunday and captures they performances. After listening later, the sound engineer agreed there was a special quality in the mid-day service missing in the others. Some digital analysis concurred – the other two performances were almost identical – only ‘my’ service was a tad bit better, richer, whatever. maybe someone has some equipment capable of separating out single voices – we didn’t, so I let the story slide by, seeing as how no one really cared except me.

One Sunday, though, I hung around late because I had dropped my keys inside – thought to wait until everyone left before crawling around the floor. So Lars didn’t see me when he came up the basement stairs. Didn’t know that I watched him take some music sheets from the podium. Didn’t know much, actually. Lars is a good sort, but kind of slow – war injury way back I’ve heard. He was the janitor and gardeners about the grounds – waving at everyone, but never saying much. He was mostly deaf amongst other things, but the church was blessed to have him, and didn’t have to pay him much with throwing in a free apartment over the garage. I’d complimented him a time or two over his flowers and well tended walks, but never got more than a little bow and a grin. Something didn’t fit – thought I’d check it out.

Next Sunday I went early and sat behind some boxes of emergency food in the basement. Sure enough, Lars arrived just before eleven and sat in a chair next to the big organ pipes sticking through the floor. He was silent until the grand organ stopped – I could feel those tubes pulsing from across the room – kind eerie feeling the heart of the sound down here with the notes coming out upstairs. Then the little organ started – barely heard except through the now silent pipes – and Lars began to sing along. He did not sing all that loudly, but I closed my ears against the tears for the beauty of it! Each deep note was like a waterfall in prayer, and his higher range could cause birds to gather in awe. I don’t think he knew he could best most opera I have heard – and maybe he didn’t have the power for it, his being kinda frail and all. But here – those giant tin pipes swept up his voice and amplified it across the church above – not a single voice like the unknowing singers in the choir, but twenty-four voices modulated slightly in pitch and color and wonder. Fully a third of the spectacular presentation the Bishop applauded came from a tiny, seventy-year old man in the bowels of the earth.

I’ve never told anyone of this ‘til now – just coming as I have from laying flowers on his grave – not many people there at the service to recognize his forty years there. So, I have to tell, I guess – as they will surly know next Sunday when more than fresh flowers are missing. And I’ve been wondering how much we miss of what’s really going on with people because we look for the grand organ and the prize winning choir and the towering steeple — and never hear the simplest of prayers that somehow touch our souls.