The Wee Small Voice

I was working around the house today, grubby and scuzzy. There was to be a Maundy Thursday service at church at 7:00 PM. I almost talked myself out of going because it meant I would have to get all cleaned up . But the wee small voice in my soul said that I needed to be there...that Christ died for me and that He at least deserved my attendance at a service commemorating his last supper, passion, and death. I'm glad I listened to the voice. What an absolutely powerful service took place tonight! I am still breathless from it. My church (Plainfield United Methodist) once again geared a service that touched my heart in ways even I don't fully understand. The music was to cry for (and I did). At the end, the sanctuary lights were lowered except for those behind the cross on the wall, and the last words of the liturgist were, "And then, the Lamb of God...died". There was no further sound except a blow on the shofar. The choir (all dressed in black) followed their leader holding a candle out of the sanctuary in silence...and the congregation filed out without a word.

There was even silence in the parking lot. I noticed that cars didn't move quickly. I wondered if others were still sitting in their cars still as stunned as I was. When I departed, I drove to Friendship Gardens and sat for a few minutes in front of the waterfall, listening to the robins sing down the sun and thanking God for a most glorious summery day...and the promise of everlasting life.

Back in 1994, I was singing in an Easter cantata that was being performed in Belle Union, just east of Cloverdale. I was driving from Plainfield to the practices because Joe and I were only recently divorced. I had a solo...Mary's Song...sung at the foot of the cross where Jesus had just died. It was a tear-jerker. There were to be two performances on Palm Sunday weekend. I had barely gotten home from the first performance when my sister called to say that our father had just died. I think I knew it was coming but had hoped that it wouldn't be. What to do? Stay the next day for the last performance, then leave for Illinois? Or skip out on the last performance and leave the whole cast in the lurch? I stayed...but I felt hollow. Would I be able to sing? The next evening, I drove to the church in Belle Union, considering what, if anything, I should tell my fellow singers. As we were putting on our costumes in a back room, I mentioned that I had lost my father the night before. One woman said, "Oh, how nice! Last night, your father couldn't hear you. Tonight, he can!" It changed my whole perspective from despair to victory. You'd better bet that I sang my heart out that night...for my father. I'll never forget it. Such a powerful memory so long ago...