For a few years running, John belonged to a unique barbershop chorus. He signed up ahead of time, and was sent the written music to memorize. There were tapes to listen to as well, and for months he had the twelve songs playing on earphones while he lived his ordinary life. Then he and a hundred other barbershop aficionados arrived in one place, ready for a single practice before they gathered on stage to perform. 

 

He loved it. Everyone did their homework. It would be unthinkable to be unprepared, not only because people were counting on you, but because singing full throttle when you are confident is a million times more fun than pretending. 

 

One time the event was close enough for me to attend, and I walked into the auditorium to see him in his element. He knew the words. Heck, I knew some of them from when he sang around the house. Ensconced in a crowd of men who loved what they were doing as fervently as he did, was a happy place to be.

 

After the show, they would all stay up into the wee hours, doing a kind of Virginia Reel. Your name tag identified you as lead, tenor, bass or baritone, and four strangers who were no longer strange would stand shoulder to shoulder and belt out any one of the dozen songs. In this context, embellishments and improvisation were welcome. 

 

It reminds me of how heaven works. I picture people who have worked alone, on learning the music that is kindness. Maybe they are the only one at work who doesn't cut corners, or pilfer supplies. Perhaps they love marriage, but it has been an ideal they have striven for in solitude. Maybe they felt isolated, and yet held true to their commitments. 

 

Then, when they arrive in the afterlife, they will slip into place where all that effort renders them ready to join the choir. It will be joyful, because having a song in your heart is a million times more fun than pretending.