Congregational singing

 Jim’s nephew, Caleb (David and Michelle’s oldest), flew in last Saturday night to spend the summer with us. He has an internship in Boston. The job is remote, but he is hoping to be able to go into the office at some point and see his co-workers. And I think he just wants to live in the Boston area (who wouldn’t?).

Sunday morning Caleb said he wanted to attend church with me. Attendance is capped, so I had to check with the executive secretary, who said there was a built-in cushion and it shouldn’t be a problem.

For the second week in a row, we were allowed to sing with the organ, albeit with masks on. Last week I could barely sing, a combination of a very rusty singing voice and the emotion of savoring an activity we haven’t been allowed to enjoy for fourteen months: congregational singing. This week my voice was a little stronger, but holding the cherished green hymnbook and singing still brought tears to my eyes.

Church attendance has been a constant in my life, my whole life. The first time I attended church in person during the pandemic, it felt strange and isolating. No hymnbooks and only every third pew occupied. Twenty-five people spread out in a seemingly cavernous chapel. Now every other pew is used and soon the attendance cap will be raised.

Asking permission for Caleb to attend highlighted the wonderful religious freedom I have enjoyed all my life and taken for granted until last year.

The weather was gorgeous, so we were able to meet outside and chat after sacrament meeting. I’m fully vaccinated, so I’m no longer worried about infection. The soul-numbing isolation is coming to an end. Hallelujah!