The church was full to over-flowing and television screens had been set up in the social hall for the people who did not arrive one hour early to the funeral service. My front row seat was guaranteed, being both a member of the family and a singer for this sad occasion.
I had been asked to sing Amazing Grace and luckily found a piano accompaniment rich with chords to match the fullness that I knew my voice would contribute to the performance. I was honored to be included in this special way and felt good about my singing until I sat through the song that followed mine. Although I had worked hard to present my best, my singing felt shabby compared to the next performer. The first note of his song caused my body to freeze in place on the padded pew and embarrassment burn my face. The entire space was filled with an elaborate orchestration and the voice of celebrity musician Garth Brooks—all recorded. At that moment, part of me withdrew and my public singing voice went up on a shelf where it stayed for many years.
It is easy to hide when you believe that you’re not good enough and this is what I felt. The thought was fueled by a fierce anger that would lash out at a world that seemed to prefer professional recordings to live performance, and superstar celebrity singers to the wealth of well-trained local talent that exists outside of the spotlight.
Part of my inner rage came from feeling duped. I would have politely declined the invitation to sing at this young woman’s funeral had I known that her husband was working hard to set up a sound system in order to broadcast a Garth Brooks recording to the crowd of 400 plus mourners. No amount of beautiful chords could convince me that my acoustic solo (no microphone and only piano accompaniment) could compare with the full orchestration and professional sound quality of the successful recording. I felt like an idiot, or a simpleton, or the Little Drummer Boy who has no elaborate gift for the Baby Jesus—only a simple song.
Fortunately for me funerals are rare and the years passed without another invitation to sing. (Had I received one I would have queried if they were planning a Garth Brooks performance at any time during the service and based my decision on their answer.)
Eventually someone in the family died—my mother’s uncle at age 104. I drove across the state of Washington and into the small town where my mother’s family had settled when they immigrated to the U.S. (some during the Russian Revolution of 1917.) I arrived with just a few minutes to spare and sat towards the back of the sanctuary directly behind my father and aunt. The mourners were sparse and scattered across the large room, a very different scene from the previous funeral I had attended. When they announced the hymn—How Great Thou Art—I made the decision to sing out so loudly that my nearly deaf father (who has 98% hearing loss) would hear me—perhaps for the last time.
As we progressed through verse one I saw my aunt wiping the tears away from her eyes. Sentimental by nature and quick to weep like her father, I knew she was crying because she recognized my voice. She would have cried if I sounded like a cricket. I looked away quickly, touched by her tears and the memories of singing in this church when my grandmother was alive. (“She was so proud of you and your sisters singing in church that she was about to bust a button.”)
When the song finished I heard the funeral director say to the immediate family—seated at the front—“Who was that singing?” Shoulders shrugged and heads turned in bewilderment as he remarked “Well, she’s got a job to do!” His voice echoed up into the high ceiling, bounced around, and landed first on my heart and then on my conscience. Perhaps there was a place for my voice after all.
My story doesn’t end here. It picks up last week as I was traveling east on I-90 to attend another family funeral (the wife of the uncle who died at 104.) I was wondering if I would make it in time for the service when my cell phone rang. It was my aunt saying “I just heard you were coming—will you sing for the funeral? Amazing Grace, or anything you want—a medley of songs would be good too.”
I said yes—no questions asked. I arrived at the church with just enough time to change clothes and sit down. When my turn came I walked to the piano at the front of the sanctuary, played a chord, then stood between the piano and the casket while singing In the Garden and Amazing Grace a capella. My eye caught sight of one aunt wiping her eyes and I quickly turned my gaze to the more stoic pall bearers. I knew she recognized In The Garden which I had sung at my grandmother’s funeral in this same church. I sang out—unrehearsed—and enjoyed the vibration of music cascading first through my body and then through the arches above me. The building felt alive with sound and presence—the presence of my voice.
I sat down, some words were spoken, and the minister turned on a recording by a contemporary Christian artist who was singing about dancing with Jesus.
As I listened to this song I experienced an inner calm which seemed to come from the knowledge that this recording—any recording—would not, could not steal the show from me. Not because of the quality of my voice or my relationship to the family, but because mine was a live performance and vibrated with a power and presence that no recording can match.
It was in this way that I finally learned the lesson I had missed years ago. The lesson that I have a job to do—it is my job to be present in my life, sing the song I’m meant to sing at the opportunities that life presents to me. Celebrity singers in all their glory and with all of their skill, talent, promotion, and glitz, cannot fill my shoes. I had it all wrong—I thought I couldn’t hold a candle to them, but in truth, they cannot hold my space. That’s my job and my opportunity.
