Lessons on singing, struggling and grace.

Did you wonder where I was last week?

My bestie Wendy (right) and me, mid-rehearsal last week. Though it’s hard to tell, we’re having fun.

When is the last time you did something that really scared you? Or even something you weren’t sure you were all that good at?

I’m asking because that’s exactly what I did last week. And it felt, well, pretty great.

First, a little background.

I’ve been a singer all my life.

I learned about the joy that singing and music can bring from my mom, who taught my sister and me all kinds of songs, and from my dad, who had perfect pitch and was a gifted piano player. From Girl Scout camp songs to parts in high school musicals to traveling the world with a college ensemble to singing with an enormous choir in Carnegie Hall, I’ve had a lot of wonderful choral experiences.

Growing up in the 1970s, I learned to play guitar to accompany my singing and had a tidy little business in high school playing and singing for weddings and parties. You probably won’t be surprised that Paul Stookey’s “The Wedding Song” was a favorite.

Since around 2003, I’ve been a soprano in my Episcopal church choir. I’ve never had much formal training, but thanks to talented (and patient) choir directors, I’ve learned to love the ensemble sound of a good choir and value the relationships that make it so much fun. It’s deeply satisfying to worship God together this way.

I never thought much about the quality of my voice or whether I’d be able to keep up. Singing had always come naturally to me. I guess I was grateful, though I never really thought about it.

Then came the pandemic, and, like everything else, choir ended abruptly in the spring of 2020. Singing was especially dangerous because it spread the coronavirus. Yes, we tried to do choir rehearsals on zoom, but singing alone in a your bedroom while trying to hear your friends in their respective squares on a screen is about as far from in-person choir rehearsals as you can get. It was depressing.

So I stopped. Stopped singing, stopped going to online church, just stopped.

Many months later, I was sitting in front of my computer, weeping at the beauty of an online service of Advent Lessons and Carols from Calvary Episcopal Church in Memphis, when I realized I needed to sing again. I needed that connection, that beauty, that feeling of a whole being greater than any one part. I missed my friends.

Fortunately, Kristin Lensch, the gracious and gentle choir director at Calvary, was as welcoming as she could possibly be. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Do what you can. We’re so glad to have you back.”

During the first few (masked) in-person rehearsals, I couldn’t stop crying. Mostly because I was so glad to hear choir music again, but for another reason, too.

I found that something had happened to my voice during the pandemic-induced months of silence and fear and worry. I could barely sing without becoming instantly breathless; my high notes were pretty much gone. For the first time, I was self-conscious about how I sounded and worried I couldn’t keep up.

Kristin told me things would get better, and she was right. I came back enough to look forward to our weekly rehearsals and be (mostly) comfortable on Sundays. Our choir spent 10 days in the summer of 2022 doing a choral residency at St. Alban’s Cathedral outside London, singing every day. It was glorious.

Still, my voice had clearly aged. Hadn’t it? Wasn’t that what my self-consciousness was about?

I had a lot of heart-to-heart talks with myself. Maybe it was time for the voice lessons I’d never had as a younger singer. Maybe I just wasn’t practicing enough. Maybe I should move to a lower voice part. Maybe I should just admit I’d never be the singer I was.

Deep down, though, I knew I wasn’t really struggling with my voice. I was struggling with my mind. I was struggling with my perception of myself in an older body, with everything not coming as effortlessly (thoughtlessly?) as it once had.

As the months passed and I got used to singing regularly again, I tried to stop holding on so tightly to my need for perfection. I tried to be kinder in my talks with myself. I recognized how much I looked forward to choir rehearsals and tried to value those precious hours when all I have to do is sing with my friends.

After all, music is not my work, it’s my joy. It’s what I do to connect with other people and worship God.  

Which is why I decided to do the thing that scared me, to paraphrase the great Eleanor Roosevelt. I signed up for a weeklong choir camp in Indiana with my best friend and her daughter. We’d be rehearsing morning and afternoon and singing Evensong every night. We’d stay in university dorms and eat in together in the dining hall. I knew it would be a lot, but I was excited.  

I was right – the RSCM Midwest Summer Choral Residency was seven solid days of exacting rehearsals, most of it standing up. (There were 20 or so children participating in the residency, too; they pay attention better when they’re standing, apparently.) The music – which I had tried to prepare in advance – was beautiful and difficult. By nightfall, I was exhausted.

But I was also amazed. At how quickly a crowd of 60 fidgety children and adults came together to make something beautiful. At how much fun it was to swap stories over lunch with people who love singing this challenging and beautiful music as much as I do. At how grateful I am to have spent a week side-by-side with someone I’ve loved since we were teens, singing together as we did when we were girls.

Wendy, Joanna and me after our last Evensong, June 2024. We are TIRED.

(If you’d like to hear a little of what we sang, including the banger anthem — “Seek Him That Maketh the Seven Stars,” by Jonathan Dove — that was the highlight of the week, there’s a video of our last Evensong.)

A week later, what I know for sure about my singing is that it isn’t really about the singing, or even how many notes I get right. What it’s really about is showing up and being part of the larger whole, part of a group of people who are making music and worshiping God together.

And that’s enough.