In a few weeks I will join a chorus. The single practice for Baba Yetu will not suffice for learning a piece to be performed for hundreds of listeners, so we have been given instruction both audible and written ahead of time. 

 

The words are in Swahili, and its meaning is the Lord's Prayer. It seems as powerful in another tongue as it is when I use familiar ones, which is a metaphor that beguiles me. 

 

John is more proficient at music than I am, and has been propping up my efforts like tomato cages in a garden. We both know I lean over the staff lines, or linger past a dotted half, dripping into what should be a dramatic pause. 

 

The director who created the tracks is amazing. He recorded each part, with and without the background so that we might listen to our heart's desire. I have chosen moments before bed, while at the sewing machine, in the car, and standing at the stove to rehearse. John assures me that I can do this. I remain unconvinced, but here I am. 

 

It occurs to me that the director could, if magic were possible, sing all the voices at once. I suppose mixing boards are that brand of magic. He nailed them, without breaking a sweat. Yet if joy is measurable, I would be so bold as to say that he will more jubilant to be joined by sixty voices. Even the imperfect ones. 

 

Kind of like how God is.