It's Saturday Night
One of the few things about my strange life at The WH that doesn't surprise me or anyone else is that some days it's just too much church. Some days I drag my ass downstairs feeling miserable and resentful, and while sometimes the time in the chapel makes it better, sometimes church is to be endured rather than embraced.
I never feel that way on Saturday afternoon. At 3:45 I go downstairs in an attitude of, if not eagerness, at least expectation. When we arrive, the church is empty. We put out books and sheets and candles; the regulars trickle in. Everything is usually silent, except for a few whispered pleasantries and instructions. When Mike opens the Royal Doors, it's like the beginning of a symphony.
When I first moved here, it was strange and new, but it was so beautiful I thought I might cry. I recall the first time I heard Mike's booming baritone and Lesia's strong alto meld together in the great openness of the church. The beauty of it remains, but now there is a warm, hospitable feeling. It's my home. There in the midst of Walter's occasional heavy bass and Yuriy's reedy tenor, I am privileged to stand as one of them, and add my voice to theirs. I can know that Sister Janet is there without looking back. I can sing a full-throated "Alleluia" and feel the harmonies build around me. I am a part of it.
And it is becoming a part of me. I can muddle through the stichera, and the regular parts are there for me when I need them. O Joyful Light, the Song of Simeon, the psalms. When my grandparents lay dying on their deathbeds, I reached and found them. Out of the depths I cried to you O Lord, O Lord hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive... and I can hear all the voices gathered around me.
I never feel that way on Saturday afternoon. At 3:45 I go downstairs in an attitude of, if not eagerness, at least expectation. When we arrive, the church is empty. We put out books and sheets and candles; the regulars trickle in. Everything is usually silent, except for a few whispered pleasantries and instructions. When Mike opens the Royal Doors, it's like the beginning of a symphony.
When I first moved here, it was strange and new, but it was so beautiful I thought I might cry. I recall the first time I heard Mike's booming baritone and Lesia's strong alto meld together in the great openness of the church. The beauty of it remains, but now there is a warm, hospitable feeling. It's my home. There in the midst of Walter's occasional heavy bass and Yuriy's reedy tenor, I am privileged to stand as one of them, and add my voice to theirs. I can know that Sister Janet is there without looking back. I can sing a full-throated "Alleluia" and feel the harmonies build around me. I am a part of it.
And it is becoming a part of me. I can muddle through the stichera, and the regular parts are there for me when I need them. O Joyful Light, the Song of Simeon, the psalms. When my grandparents lay dying on their deathbeds, I reached and found them. Out of the depths I cried to you O Lord, O Lord hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive... and I can hear all the voices gathered around me.