I attended a service to commemorate Christ's last night on earth. The musicians dressed in black, as did some of the congregation. The minister chose readings that encompassed the struggle that Jesus endured, and spoke about our own losses as well. In alteration with the lessons were pieces performed by the choir. They were accompanied by two
rare instruments from the 17th century, a theorba and a viola da gamba, played exquisitely. One was so long I wondered if it would fit in my car.
Part way through the service five young children stepped into place to join the singers, and opened their books on queue. Their innocence traded my subdued feelings in for hope. Easter is, after all, about new life. Even before they parted their lips I felt moved by their presence. They too wore black, although one girl
had a pink bow and dragonflies on her dress.
The conductor's hands were expressive as they swooped and paused, guiding each section in turn. All eyes were on him, and he looked like a conduit for the notes on the page to spring into the air.
Then it came time for a solo. The conductor stepped beside the organ, faced the congregation and sang. I say he sang, but that is a paltry word for what happened. His voice filled the cathedral and
carried us from the despairing grief of the story to the emerging dawn. Then a contralto stood next to the organ and filled the space with her own rich sound.
I was grateful for the evening and could have felt content to go home, but I had no idea what would happen next. The conductor, and the contralto, who is also his wife, sang a duet. It was more of a dance between them, defying death, and breaking apart grief like the last ice in winter. Neither of them
seemed to need scores at all as their voices spilled into each other. They looked at one another, almost as if they were the only ones in the church.
It was an image of marriage that had color, movement, playfulness and healing, and it went to my heart.
