Reflections
(and random art)
The Church Singers
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| 'Tales from the Ballet,' illustrated by Alice and Martin Provensen (1968) |
The church is filling up with voices. Soaring, keening songs, the result of a hundred worshippers joined together to celebrate God. Congregants born and raised somewhere far away, singing a language I don't understand. They've come from points unknown, and yet here they all are, situated in the middle of a western Canadian city.
The performance is beautiful, rough and urgent. It's raw and honest, unrehearsed and to the point. I hear true longing in some of the more strident voices. I wish I knew what they were saying, what song they were singing. My curiosity is strong, but it feels enough to stand as a witness to the music within.
Some of the singers are off key, and many more are only slightly flat. Someone falters repeatedly on the high notes. It's powerful and honest, though, and whatever lack of musicality is replaced by conviction made audible. There is hope in their voices. There's a belief, and it's the ultimate relief in having a God that cares about you.
I don't go into the church to watch, but I walk slowly along the building's exterior. The song comes through the open windows. This isn't a wealthy church with stained glass and a brick exterior; the windows are plain, painted beige. It's a sparse little building, unimposing and without decoration. No decoration save for the voices, lifting through the air like sparrows taking flight into the sunlight.
I walk past, and the sounds fade. I am left with the background noise of the city and an inward smile.
*
Tim Horton's Special
I noticed him last year. An old man, windswept and worn out looking. He'd stand on the sidewalk, his gnarled frame in a torn up and light jacket. He'd stand there and pass out papers, asking a purchase price of $1. The paper was written by homeless men and women, and could be sold to make profit for those living on the street. The articles were always sparse, and the man's papers were always wildly out of date. He didn't seem to notice, and I never cared. The $1 wasn't to read breaking news.
He was always friendly, if a little unwashed and unshaved. I saw him several days a week, often two or three times a day. He'd stand on his chosen corner and sell out of date newspapers, sometimes asking for a warm coffee. The man had a nice smile. He didn't seem to expect much, and never seemed to mind the fact that very few people ever bought his papers.
I bought him coffee and donuts once. He was appreciative without acting overdone. He nodded in my general direction and gave a quiet thanks. I left him there, as he was sipping on his coffee and holding his bag of donuts.
As I walked away from him, I felt good. The winter was cold, and standing around a street corner had to be boring. It was the least I could do, to acknowledge the humanity in him. I decided to buy him coffee again, and a sandwich if he wanted. Next time I'd offer.
But every time I went to look for him after that, he was gone. I never saw him again.
