A choir blends more that voices. Up there is my lovely daughter-in-law, a spring daisy pompon in a field of flowers. Young faces group below her like a freshly planted border of pansies. The overhead lights bounce off their shiny knees and illuminate their upturned faces.
Above their heads a bouquet of people – some stand erect and still, like bearded iris, other sway like tall grass in the breeze of the music.
A chair is placed aside the risers to accommodate one senior singer. He is dressed all in brown, an early planting now fading in color and drooping in stance as he leans on a brown cane, but his face radiates with praise.
The choirmaster multitasks. He’s a master gardener keeping the raised bed of basses and tenors in harmony with the terrace of altos and row of sopranos. He pulls one and then another out to bless the Lord with a solo phrase of song, taking the microphone himself to join a trio in front. A hand rises in the air and keeps the beat for him when his attention is elsewhere.
From a seat near the front of the stage at the First Baptist Church in Watsonville I sing a joyful song too, appreciating the balance the worship band has achieved, allowing my eyes to rest on the guitar player, my son.
I know these people were plucked from their busy lives, pulled together hastily to form a choir for Easter. I also know that when God’s people gather to sing and play, angels sing and play with them. A choir blends generations, talents, even Heaven and earth for moment.
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