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This past month, after three years away, I returned to my old church choir. I wasn’t back for good. Rather, I sang with them as a show of support for the choir director, who was being replaced after over 30 years of service to the parish (a decision from higher up that none of us were happy with). We sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” as our last hurrah, the high Gs and As exploding out of us from our stomachs, our lungs, our chests, our hearts.
The other month, I sang my grandfather’s funeral as well. It was a way to hold myself together, but it was also a gift I wanted to give both to him and to my family. I threw my entire body into that music and — though I was a boogery, sobbing mess at points — it felt good.
Writing does the same thing for me.
