The Organist...

I entered the chapel, the previous congregation leaving and a few of us early birds passing them as they left. I know almost none of them, friendly faces pass me, we share a smile and perhaps, a nod. I find the pew--my pew--the same pew an hour earlier another family also claimed as their own--and put down my iPad. After getting ready, showering, dressing, driving to the church, parking, and walking inside, I finally sit and let out a well-deserved sigh.

Not all worshipers have left, or are leaving. Groups of people stay and talk. I look around and notice a lone figure sitting at the century-old organ, his fingers and feet in tandem providing music, atmosphere, a spiritual farewell to the meeting and the room.

I've met the man on occasion. He lives close, but since the boundary separating our group of church-goers from the other group of church-goers to the east separates us spiritually, I have few opportunities to interact with him or his family. It's a shame...a culturally-imposed shame we don't talk more. Oh, I suppose I could go to his house and get to know them better, but that would be...in a word...weird.

His talent evident, the organist finishes the song he played as I came into the chapel. I'd be hard pressed to name it...after attending over three thousand of such meetings in my life, the music can blend together. Even though a dozen or so people remained in the room, mostly chatting with friends, neighbors, I feel I alone noticed the man and his music. I could be wrong--I often am--but I don't think so. How many times have I been in a chapel, an organist playing either prelude or postlude music, and I haven't even noticed, haven't even looked at who was playing, haven't acknowledged the miracle that is music?

Too often to count.

I watch him finish the song...the music, once a living thing surrounding us, comforting and uplifting us, stopped, replaced by the dim of humans in a space built by pioneer ancestors. I watched him humbly gather the music and his personal belongings and leave the stand to join others and continue his sabbath day.

The organist left the room.

Worn...And Well Loved

 It seems you see fewer and fewer well-worn things, nowadays. We live in such a disposal world--it doesn't help things are no longer built to last anymore. Still, if you take care of things, they'll stick around (look at all the old VW beetles out there...). 

A few weeks ago I snapped a picture of two hymnals, one was ours (I call Old Orange...), and the other belong to the meetinghouse. Both books are spiral-bound, meaning they lay flat on a music stand, which is important if your calling is to lead music and you can't fiddle with a book that wants to close. I brought our almost worn out hymnal with the thought that if they had a better edition at the church, I'd use that one...

Turns out, mine was better.

Yes, both books had covers that were duct-taped together. The blue book actually had pages that had become separated from the binding and were just sitting inside. I ended up using Old Orange and things turned out fine.

I suppose we could order a new spiral-bound hymnal--it's what people seem to do these days. I'm sure we can justify the cost. But, there's a certain charm to keeping imperfect things, things that still offer value, that still work, that still do what they were designed to do. One day in the future we'll probably have to buy a new book and on that day, I'll be a little sad. Old Orange has been good to us...

And we'll try to be good back.