I will sing to the LORD as long as I live; I will sing praise to my God while I have my being. Psalms 104:33
In late June, I gathered with three other members of my faith community to record music to stream during our online worship on Sundays. One person played guitar and sang. Another person and I joined in the singing, and a fourth videoed our performance.
We removed our masks and stood six feet apart, across what is normally the front of our worship space in a historic home now used as an event center. The high ceiling and wood floors of the main gallery provided an acoustic that didn’t require microphones.
It was the first time since mid-March, when COVID-19 forced cancellation of concerts and sent church services online, that I’d sung with others.
While our videographer got set up, the three of us practiced a new piece, “All Belong Here,” by The Many.* We decided who would sing which verse, and worked out the harmonies. This song, more than all the others we would record, would be a surprise for our faith community. A gift to be opened and shared with them.
I looked out over the empty room and imagined what Sunday morning used to be like. Before. The chairs full of people I have come to love as family, smiling and singing along. Now, we meet over Zoom on Sunday mornings, where group singing is impossible. Delays with sound and video result in cacophony rather than coherence.
As our guitar player strummed the intro, I inhaled, breathing deeply into my belly. On the exhale, I opened my mouth and released the breath, my vocal cords vibrating to create one note after another. The sound resonated effortlessly throughout the room. After weeks of barely singing a note, the initial strength of my voice surprised me.
We looked at one another and smiled after recording that first song. The practicing we’d done on our own and together had paid off. We’d wrapped the gift. Now came the anticipation and excitement for the recipients to open it.
We continued on, slipping into a rhythm of rehearsing and recording, each of us providing suggestions on which song to record next and what tempo would be best. After rehearsing to everyone’s satisfaction, we stood silently and waited for the videographer’s cue to begin.
The three of us sang melody and harmony for two hours that evening. Our souls could have kept going, but our voices were tired and hoarse. “That’s it,” I said, my hand to my throat as I picked up my water bottle. “I’m done.” The others agreed.
We put on our masks, turned out the lights and walked out to the parking lot. We gave virtual hugs and wished one another well, unsure of when we would meet in person again.
I left feeling an aliveness that I might even dare to call joy and, at the same time, a deep sadness.
You see, I’ve been singing with others for as long as I can remember.
As a young girl, my sisters and I, along with our babysitter’s daughter, would spend the afternoon choreographing and singing along with the soundtrack from the movie Grease. The handle of an upright vacuum cleaner served as our microphone, and our swimsuits as costumes. At the end of the day, when Mom came to pick us up, we’d perform our show.
I sang in choir through high school, and attended Luther College in Decorah, Iowa, so I could participate in ensembles without having to major in music. Some of my fondest memories come from experiences with friends in Nordic Choir at Luther. Our conductor, Weston Noble, was a delightful combination of preacher, teacher, and conductor. He often reminded us during daily rehearsals that the goosebumps we felt while performing were a manifestation of mind, body, and spirit joining together. When we toured Eastern Europe in 1991, we sang the national anthems of Estonia and Latvia at concerts in these Baltic States. On the verge of gaining their independence from Russia, hearing their anthems sung in public for the first time in many years brought the audience—and the singers—to tears.
Since graduating college, I’ve joined church choirs and community choruses everywhere I’ve lived, from Paris, France, to Des Moines, Iowa. I knew I would find friends and kindred spirits in these places—people who loved joining with others to make music.
Even when I returned to graduate school and had less free time, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the choir I was singing with. I needed the music and the community. So, I’d bring my law books to rehearsal and read a paragraph or two while the conductor worked with another section. Other members of the group cheered me on during my studies and celebrated with me when I graduated.
For the last twenty-one seasons, I’ve been singing with the Des Moines Choral Society, taking only one year off for a sabbatical.
A jolt of electricity rushes through me every August at our first rehearsal of the season when we breathe collectively and I listen for the sound that emerges. I keep showing up week after week and season after season because I love coming together and working toward the common goal of creating something beautiful to share with our audience.
A choir is a multitude of relationships built on trust. We trust one another to learn our part and show up for rehearsals. We are committed to the group and to the music.
There is a particular magic that happens in a concert setting, when hours of rehearsals over many weeks culminate in a performance. When everything lines up—the notes, the rhythms, and the blend and balance of the voices with the orchestra—it transcends description. The cathedral fills with sound, and for a little while we are all transported to a place of beauty and peace, where all is right with the world. Smiles and applause from the audience fill me with joy and satisfaction.
This year, the Choral Society, like so many choirs around the world, has cancelled fall rehearsals and its annual Christmas Concert. It’s not clear when we will be able to gather and sing together again.
Perhaps you’ve seen videos of choirs singing virtually, like this one I participated in as a Nordic Choir alumna, or this one by composer Eric Whitacre, made up of more than 17,000 singers from 129 countries.
These virtual choirs are beautiful, uplifting, and inspiring—and, just as it’s impossible to replicate online a gathering in the backyard with family and friends for a Fourth of July picnic, it’s not the same as sitting side by side in a rehearsal room. I stood alone in a room and sang into my phone to record my part for the Nordic virtual choir. It wasn’t until I watched the final version of the video that I felt anything—those goosebumps came only when I heard the blend and power of the full chorus singing, “I will sing to the Lord, as long as I live.”
The feeling of singing together in the same space can’t be artificially reproduced.
Before COVID-19, I took singing with others for granted. It was always there, something I could count on. With the uncertainty surrounding when we will be able to meet in the same room to sing, I hope I never feel that way again.
The Sunday after our recording session, the pastor played the video of our performance of “All Belong Here” during the online service. I smiled, wondering what the reaction would be. As expected, the gift was received with the love that had gone into creating it. Spirits uplifted. Loads lightened, if only for a few minutes.
It’s not the same as sharing the gift of music in person. But it will have to do, for now.
*You can find a performance of “All Belong Here” by The Many here. To hear the recording we made at the end of June 2020, go here and forward to the 24-minute mark.
Comment below or connect with me on social media.
