Tomorrow our choir is singing for a funeral. I didn't know the lady who died, but I know how hard this moment is for her family. I'm singing one of the verses by myself (I hesitate to call it a solo because it's just a few lines in the middle of a song). We were going to sing this particular song for the first time the second Sunday of June. Plenty of time to practice. But now it's tomorrow.
For some reason, 13 hours before the event, I feel less nervous than if we were singing it for Sunday morning. I think it's because the Sunday service is a time to showcase my "talent" – show them what I have (it's not really that much). But singing a song this family requested during their time of grief – it's a gift. I might not be perfect, but who cares? I'm a small cog in this day. I'll be singing as if I'm talking to those grown children about how we don't need to be afraid. I can do that.
You need not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day. Though thousands fall about you, near you it shall not come. And he will raise you up on eagle's wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hand.
On another note, I'm not afraid of singing (yet – ask me again at 9:55 tomorrow), but I am afraid of the age-old custom of bringing food to a funeral. The food coordinator said, "Bring a salad – maybe a jell-o salad." I said, "I do not cook. No problem!" But then I remembered my Mom's lime jell-o salad from about a thousand church and family dinners. Apparently it was really Greatnanny's recipe. Here it is in the Brookford Baptist Church cookbook:
I've made it. It's in the refrigerator congealing "setting up." It's one of my very favorite things that my Mom always made. Another gift, but not from me. Thanks Mom.