It was the best hour of my week. A woman texted to say that friends were gathering at the bedside of a man whose life was winding down. It was not about a college class, or a puppet show, a musical gig, or a dance performance. Though I have been blessed on each of those counts by the people in the room. 

We were there to sing an aging man home. 

Grandchildren, neighbors, cousins, all squished into the corners around the grandfather whose smile was John's primary memory fifty years ago when he was principal at the school across the street. His was a blessed life, as evidenced by the loving wife, the children and grandchildren that surrounded him. 

His daughters handed out liturgies, although the songs we chose were inscribed on our hearts. Hymns about heaven, and God's tender care swelled the room with hope. His wife had her arms around their youngest granddaughter, the one who knew how to set up a google chat with her aunt in another state. When we started in on patriotic songs, his lips moved in sync with ours. His eyes opened briefly. He was at peace.

Then it was time to let him rest. We crept out quietly into the summer night. I noticed a crescent moon, hanging low as if offering a ride to anyone ready to leave the planet and a spent body. 

I slipped back into my own life with chores and laundry and chickens. But in one hour I had done enough to slide everything into place. Cried. Laughed. Sang. Hugged, Prayed.