TALK. Singing and Sacrifice

Waiting for the ceremony to start.

Sunday, 4 May 2014

Today has been filled with the temple.  This morning Brent drove me to the new Fort Lauderdale FL Temple.  I was privileged to sing with the choir at the Cornerstone Ceremony.  Elder Uchtdorf welcomed everyone and then spoke simply.  He joked about Florida’s reputation as the Sunshine State—and suggested that yesterday’s down pouring raindrops were merely tears of joy at the dedication of another new temple. 

I sang with the outside choir. 

     *A hymn to start the Ceremony.   

     *Elder Uchtdorf’s words.

     *Lots of adults put mortar around the cornerstone. 

     *Lots of children picked to put some mortar around the cornerstone. 

     *Even more people taking pictures of adults and children putting mortar around the cornerstone. 

     *We begin to sing a second hymn and the adults go into the temple. 

     *We keep singing and Elder Uchtdorf and his wife wave to the crowd, turn toward the temple doors and then go in. 

We finish the last chorus—a swell of emotion and volume and exultation . . . and relief.

The music is over.

We are still looking at the director who is smiling.  No, he is not smiling:  he is grinning and he is profoundly happy.  We all are.  And we just stand there, feeling the sun on our shoulders and the closeness of the other choir members around us.

Our eyes move beyond the director.  Behind and above him there is a cameraman.  He is pointing to the sky with his left index finger—somehow we all know that we are not to move.

As the director turns, the cameraman covers the microphone attached to his earphones.  “All clear.”

I look at the women around me and then over at my husband, who has been standing a little ways off on the sidewalk for the last 90 minutes.  Everyone starts to walk off and a panicked voice cries out—“Don’t leave!  Someone take a picture before we all split up!”

Everyone waits and poses.  The photograph is taken.  Everyone goes off to enjoy the rest of that holy Sabbath day.

Fort Lauderdale FL Temple  June 2014

Monday, 5 May 2014

I’m writing now on Monday evening.  The glow of the temple grounds is safe inside my memory . . . but now, as I think about singing at the Cornerstone Ceremony, it is tinged with guilt.

There were only three practices and I missed them all.  During the first one I was out of town.  The second, I was sitting home, surrounded by my plans and preparations for Nursery—and forgot until it was too late.  The last, I mis-read the date.  I thought that it was for Saturday night . . . but it was on Friday.  That Friday was spent at dinner with my daughter and her husband, celebrating her 29^th birthday.

The hymns we sang Sunday morning were both ones that I have sung all of my life.  When I was young, Mom sat next to me during Sacrament Meeting and sang the alto part so that I could learn it.  Those two songs were part of the fabric of my faith.

Early yesterday morning, I warmed up and then sang the hymns through dozens of times during the eighty minutes it took us to drive to the temple.

So . . . I don’t feel that I wasn’t prepared to sing on Sunday morning . . . but I hadn’t sacrificed the time and effort that the other choir members had given. 

When I have been choir director in the past, I always felt miffed by those who didn’t come to rehearsal, but then stood up with the choir to sing during Sacrament Meeting or Stake Conference.  It felt as if they didn’t find significance in or value the effort that everyone had spent during the hours that had been spent rehearsing--or value in the contribution that I had made in preparing everyone to sing.

When I lived in Des Moines, Iowa, Stake President Mills decided that the Stake Choir would sing Handel’s Messiah every Christmas to celebrate the Savior’s birth.  We began to practice in September—every Sunday evening.  He invited people to sing the solos—by virtue of their consistency in attending rehearsals rather than by being selected after trying out.  The music was difficult, but my mother said that he “loved us” into trying so hard that every Christmas it sounded wonderful. 

My second year with the choir, I was invited to sing “He Shall Feed His Sheep” (an alto solo).  It was a difficult challenge, but by performance time, I had sung it so often that I had it memorized.  

The following year, I did not set aside the time to attend rehearsals or plan to sing with the choir.   December came and the night before the scheduled performance, the Stake President called me and asked if I would again sing “He Shall Feed His Sheep” during the performance.  The woman who had been given the assignment had come down with a sore throat—and although she was to sing with the choir, she told President Mills that she could not sing the solo.

The next night, as we began to warm up for the performance, the woman whose solo I was singing, caught my eye.  Her eyes were rimmed with tears, and she mouthed “Thank you.” to me.  I nodded and whispered “You’re welcome.” back.

At that moment, I felt the weight of all of her hours of practice and worry and effort.  I felt regret that she was unable to sing out and share with the audience the words and notes that she had practiced over and over again. 

Even though I was singing at President Mills’ request, I felt guilty.

I knew the music by heart, but I had not sacrificed to earn a place among the other singers. 

Performing sacred music is, for me, a part of the “broken heart” and “contrite spirit” (Psalms 57:17) required by Christ of his faithful saints.  When I perform at Church, I bring more than my musical talent.  I offer those who hear me prayerful preparation and hours of time spent in reflecting upon the lyrics and spent in singing the melody over and over again.

Last night I took the time to review my Facebook account.  I saw a photo, posted by one of the choir members from my ward, of those who sang at the Cornerstone Ceremony.  These were the few who had taken the time and the effort to prepare properly for the temple performance.  Their song included practice hours, travel time, and reverent contemplation:  all elements of a sacrifice worthy of the rare opportunity to participate in the dedication of a new temple.

I do not know if I would decide to sing again if I were faced with the same circumstances.  I know that I loved the opportunity to perform on temple grounds as part of the dedication of a new temple.  Perhaps next time, I would enlist my family’s help in recording and remembering the rehearsal times.  Perhaps I would just stand apart from the crowd and sing for myself. 

I hope that I get the chance to find out.