It has to be God

What was supposed to enrich my family’s Christmas season began as a strife-ridden car ride across town.

Our humble yet spunky church choir, of which I am a member, finally secured a slot to sing for this year’s Festival of Lights at the Grotto. Hoping to provide my three small children with a tangible experience signaling that, even on December 29th, the Christmas season was in full swing, I finally cajoled my husband into making the concert a family affair. “Friends from church will be there,” I reasoned. “They can help you with the kids if they get squirmy.” Little did I know that actually getting to the experience itself was the trial we would endure.

The day started off well enough. I organized my music early on, telephoned my choir director to ensure she’d bring copies of music I didn’t have, got the girls dressed and ready to go, and got dinner rolling sooner than normal. This was going to be a joyous and enjoyable evening for our family.

Despite my best efforts, events conspired to keep us helplessly behind schedule: my husband arrived home later from work than I expected; the girls dawdled mercilessly at the dinner table; the baby took a longer nap than usual (side note: why does this always happen when we have somewhere to be?!), I needed to print out driving directions to the venue, etc. As I coaxed my neglected hair into a pony-tail holder and thanked God when my nylons didn’t run, I wondered why singing in a concert clear across the Portland Metro Area at 7 p.m. on a Monday night was a good idea. Our choir was due in the Grotto’s holding room at 6:30 sharp to collect missing music, begin warm-ups, and ask St. Cecilia to intercede for us so the concert would go well.

After the baby awoke, was dressed, pooped all over and was dressed again, we hit the garage nearly half an hour behind schedule. Upon opening the van door, a putrid waft of indiscernible stench smacked our nostrils so forcibly that my husband determined to locate the culprit. I am not proud to say that I popped my left eardrum because I yelled so loudly for my husband to “STOP IT!!!! We have to LEEEEAAAVE!” So much for comfort and joy – my husband was rightly peeved with me because of my outburst, and I couldn’t hear out of my left ear.

My family was finally on our way, but we had quite a way to go. Traffic was moving well until we got to Portland proper; it seemed to crawl more slowly the further east we traveled. 6:30 p.m. rapidly came and went. I started doing deep breathing exercises to calm myself and sighed, “Forget warm-ups.” My poor husband couldn’t possibly have coped with my arpeggios and our children’s voices in such a small space. Rats. So, I can’t hear out of my left ear very well, and I can’t warm up my voice, I thought. Anxiously sipping my herbal tea, I began to pray.

Interestingly, I immediately thought of the Divine Mercy Image of Jesus, and the message of the image – “Jesus, I trust in You.” Surely Saint Faustina wasn’t thinking of comforting souls navigating nasty traffic jams when she originally conveyed this message, but I kept saying it over and over in my mind: “Jesus, I trust in You.” If the King of the Universe cared about the number of hairs on my head (Matthew 10:30), couldn’t He also care that I make it in time to sing His praises tonight?

Finally, at 6:43 p.m., we pulled into the correct parking lot, and mercifully, there was a spot close by. I decided to leave my purse under my seat in the car since I didn’t know if there would be a secure place to stash it inside. My husband corralled the kids as I slushed through the newly-melted snow toward the Grotto. The cold night air seemed amused with my attempts to hurry inside as it relentlessly stung my cheeks and iced my nose.

Once in the holding area, events began to blur. Where in the world was our director? It appeared she must be imprisoned on I-84 as well. I shakily joined in with my colleagues (several were missing, no doubt battling traffic) who were already warming up: “Unto us a child is born – come let us adore.” Seven minutes to show time, and our director arrived. I quickly grabbed the music I didn’t have, then remembered I left the three-hole-punch in my purse in the van. I groaned. It was too late to go back and retrieve it. The festival coordinator gave the signal, and we were quickly ushered out a side door. Immediately, the blast of winter cold again enveloped me. Chilled to the bone, I wondered why I hadn’t worn a longer skirt and a warmer jacket. Inside the chapel, we were directed to leave our belongings in an alcove as our audience looked on. Up on the marble altar, lights as bright as three Christmas stars shone upon us, blinding our view into the chapel.

Soon after the first downbeat of the opening song was given, I felt myself relaxing slightly, cautiously reveling in the amazing acoustics of the space. With a sound such as this, could the audience possibly know that the furious winter storm of the past several days had kept us from practicing together? Song after song, the sound God helped us create amazed me. Balancing the hole-punched and the non-hole-punched music kept me humble, though. I worried it would all come crashing down to the floor. I made several mental mistakes and silently berated myself. But the beautiful music continued to flow. Toward the end of “O, Holy Night,” I realized the copy of music I borrowed was missing the last two pages. The piece had been ripped apart at page 9. I looked over at my neighbor’s music and sang on.

We reached the final song, with my solo. My mouth and throat felt like they had been swabbed with cotton balls – dry and tired– not exactly ideal conditions for singing. And yet, I purposefully locked eyes with my choir director, steeled my nerves, and the words from “Night of Silence” miraculously filled the chapel.

Afterward, my toes frozen in my high heels, my heart relieved and my soul soaring, it hit me: this has to be God at work, because never in a million years could I, nerves completely frazzled, senses thoroughly assaulted, physical body completely unprepared, have produced anything close to resembling beauty. And yet, laid out over the course of half an hour or so of sound, there it was: music – beauty – God. It was unmistakable. This ultimately beautiful experience, the trials and challenges that preceded it – all had been possible, I realized, only because God was present throughout and allowed things to happen the way they did. We had to glorify Him, because there was no way it could have been us.

It reminded me of the story of Gideon’s Army (Judges 7). The Lord told Gideon to send almost all of his soldiers home so that there would be no mistaking God’s hand in Gideon’s sound defeat of the Midianites. And what about the Christmas story itself – it really made no human sense! A young Jewish girl, pregnant with the son of the Most High God? How many times had God stripped away all my comforts, expectations and plans, only to bring forth something infinitely better than I could have possibly imagined?

Internally, I marveled at His wonders, among them, the gift of music - the gift of my wonderful choir family. The gift par excellence – Jesus Christ present in the Eucharist in the tabernacle at the front of the chapel. And there in the cold pew, snuggled close together, my children and husband had been sitting together, listening as best they could … my family, my own special gift from God.