Yesterday afternoon, Anne and I went to the University of Michigan’s music school for a recital by incoming voice students. Twenty students sang, from those working on doctorates all the way to freshmen. The pacing of the concert was excellent, with exiting performers scarcely off the stage before the next performers entered. One accompanist was really getting her steps in; she personally supported eight of the twenty singers, and so entered and exited frequently.
Anne and I sat where we could see the keyboard of the Steinway, as did nearly all of the rest of the audience. Since, as far as I could tell, we were the only audience members not affiliated with music students or faculty, this didn’t come as a surprise. What did surprise me was that the accompanists all read their music from electronic tablets, which made page turning a cinch. It took the merest swipe of the screen, no scrabbling with pages or needing a helper. This seems like a dandy innovation.
The recital had endearing aspects. A number of the young men sported jackets and pants too short for them. One young man strode onto the stage and kept right on striding a couple long paces past the far end of the piano. One young woman, turning to her accompanist, made a three-quarter turn to her left instead of a quarter turn to her right. None of this seemed to discomfit the performers.
They were great fun to listen to. The voices of the older students are becoming rich and full. One of the men exhibited great stage presence. One man’s voice—not the strongest or most mature—was just pleasant to hear. With some of the students in particular, it was easy to imagine them finding their way to opera or musical theater or concert halls. They’re all just beginning work on their degrees and will only get better from here.
Anne and I carried wraps to the concert yesterday, to warm us in the air-conditioned building. Today, the outdoor temperature is holding at fifty-three degrees, and there’s a brisk wind. That wind, however, makes the most wonderful sound as it rushes through the woods.
Earlier this week, the dog and I walked from the south into the woods by Thurston Pond. And as we entered the part of the path flanked by shoulder-high wildflowers, a cloud of goldfinches lifted from the blossoms and hovered for a moment. “Oh, hi!” they chattered in their sweet finchy voices. “You’re a surprise. We weren’t expecting visitors. Aren’t the flowers pretty? Bye, now! Goodbye!” The lovely little birds gave us the goldfinch version of aloha or ciao—both greeting and farewell.
Which got me thinking about send-offs and welcomes. We gave a fellow parishioner a send-off this week. Amal’s funeral was dignified and tender. Only a few of us came, mostly those who sat around him in church on Sunday mornings, or who knew him through outreach after he moved to a retirement home a couple towns away and stopped attending St. Andrew’s. He had no family except the church.
Amal was a good man. Faith was important in his life. He was also invariably dapper in his attire. He was a quiet man over all, but I could tell whether he was in church without turning around. He was always half a beat ahead when we recited prayers, or psalms, or the creed, as if he were racing toward amen.
A couple weeks ago, we gave another parishioner a send-off. Sharon was widely known and held dear. The church was as full for her funeral as it is at Christmas and Easter. There was grief, and there was singing, and there was rejoicing for the life of this wonderful woman, whom I’d known since I was a teen and babysat for her children. After the service, many of the hundreds of people who came stayed to chat on the lawn, telling stories about Sharon and offering condolences to her family and to each other.
The two send-offs were quite different, yet in the memorial garden where we witnessed their burials, Amal and Sharon were the same. They were ashes. And when they entered heaven, I trust both of their welcomes were the same and filled with joy. Both of these, our friends, followed their faith and worked hard. And now, “in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life,” they’ve gone to see God. In the words of the funeral service, “Even at the grave, we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” Sharon and Amal have reached the amen toward which Amal was always racing.
23 September 2022
*sniffles
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