Alone in a Pew

Last night at 7 pm, my husband Andy disappeared out the door with three of our girls, heading off to the weekly church choir practice. As usual, Gemma-Rose and I were left behind at home.

“What shall we do this evening?” Gemma-Rose asked me.

We discussed the options and decided to make mugs of hot chocolate and watch a movie together.

We enjoy our Tuesday mother-daughter time, but one day it will come to an end. You see, Gemma-Rose has ambitions. She wants to join the choir as well. She even wants to be the psalm cantor at Sunday Mass just like big sister Imogen. Yes, when she is a bit older, she will be disappearing out the door on Tuesday evenings too.

Every Sunday at Mass, Gemma-Rose sings the hymns with enthusiasm and enjoyment. She expects me to sing just as enthusiastically. But I don’t. I’m not a singer. If the notes rise too high, I abandon singing altogether. Until my youngest daughter notices.

“We’re up to here,” Gemma-Rose whispers, jabbing her finger at the words in the hymn book. She thinks she's being helpful. 

“I know,” I whisper back. The only way to avoid being watched is to open my mouth and make a sound. So I do. Quietly.

On every first Sunday, the parish choir sings at the 9 am Mass. As our family enters the church, our choir members peel off and head to one side towards the organ. Gemma-Rose and I continue down the centre aisle before slipping into a pew. We sit side-by-side, not taking up much space. 

One day I said, “When Gemma-Rose joins the choir I’ll be sitting in the church by myself.”

“You could join the choir too, Mum,” someone said.

“But I can’t sing,” I protested.

“You don’t need to be able to sing, Mum.”

The ad in our parish bulletin does say:

Choir practice. Tuesday evening. All welcome. No singing ability needed.

“No ‘singing ability needed’ means you don’t need to be able to read music,” I said. “And if you don't have any experience singing in parts, that's okay. But I think the musical director expects you to be able to sing at least a few notes in tune.” Which I can’t.

“You could learn to sing,” suggested Sophie. “Imogen could teach you.”

Imogen already gives Sophie and Gemma-Rose singing lessons. She could give me some as well. But somehow that all sounds a bit frightening.

Fear aside, it would be nice to be able to sing. I could raise my voice with everyone else and not be embarrassed. That might be very enjoyable. And I could take my place, with my family, in the choir. 

Or I could not learn to sing and sit by myself in a pew in the main body of the church.

Of course, I wouldn’t really be sitting by myself. In our parish, no one sits alone in a pew. It’s one of those small and intimate communities where most people know each other, at least by sight. We greet the same people, week after week, smile at each other and feel we belong. 

But, even though I'd be sitting with my fellow parishioners, I wouldn’t be sitting shoulder to shoulder with Gemma-Rose. Her hand wouldn’t reach out for mine as we listen to Father’s homily. She wouldn’t be checking up on me regularly, making sure I was actually singing.

It’s funny how things change. Not so long ago, our family had to squash together to fit into one pew. Between Andy and I there’d be children of all ages. Nowadays our pew is looking a little bare. Some days there’s even enough room left over for other people to share it with us. And once a month on choir Sunday, Gemma-Rose and I sit alone, taking up hardly any space at all.

So shall I learn to sing? Or will I resign myself to one day sitting alone in a pew?

Photos: These were taken before we left for the Easter Vigil Mass. Three of the girls are dressed up in their 'choir black and whites.'

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When We Don't Know What We Should Be Doing

Praying Mantis by Tom Hannigan, (CC BY 2.0

I’ve been struggling for months. I’ve been writing and posting and visiting other blogs, keeping up my Facebook page and answering messages. And all the time wondering if this is what I’m supposed to be doing.

I’ve had times when I’ve just wanted to retreat back to my smaller offline world and forget about blogging. And then just as quickly, I’ve had an idea for a post, written it and then felt excited again.

Up and down. Up and down. It’s not a very peaceful state to be in.

Sometimes I cry out, “What am I supposed to be doing?”

I’ve asked my children: “You like writing, Mum. Don’t give up.”

I’d ask my husband, Andy, but I know he'd encourage me to do what I want, whatever I enjoy. 

But what do I want to do? 

Sometimes I wonder if an unsettled feeling means God is telling me this phase of my life is over. He has different things for me to do. If only I'd move on, those new things will present themselves. If I stop writing and spend some time waiting and listening, I might hear my new instructions.

Then again, I wonder if those unsettled feelings are a nudge from the devil rather than God. If they were, I would then have to conclude the devil doesn’t want me to blog because blogging results in good. But whenever I think this, I am led back to the thought that perhaps I’m not actually doing anything worthy of the devil’s attention. But, of course, that would be what he wants me to think, wouldn't it?

These thoughts go around and around my mind. And it’s tiring. I sometimes yearn for my baby and toddler days when, although I often felt exhausted, I knew exactly what God wanted me to do.

Yesterday we arrived at Mass earlier than normal because my daughter Imogen was the cantor and she had to practise singing the psalm with the musical director before Mass began. So I had plenty of time to kneel in front of the altar and chat a little with God.

“What do you want me to do?” I cried as usual.

As I gazed up at the stained glass window above the altar, I wondered why this question feels like such a big deal. I’m healthy and have a happy and blessed life with my family. Why should I feel so churned up inside by such a small thing as whether I should blog or not. It’s not like I’m trying to make a huge life-changing decision. Just be grateful for what you have and buck up, I told myself.

Mass was celebrated. We returned home and someone remarked on how cold it was. I turned on the heater. Andy made coffee. One of the girls toasted some raisin bread. And we settled in the family room to enjoy our morning snack.

“What are you going to do today, Mum? my daughter Sophie asked.

And all of a sudden, I felt excited. “I’m going to write a post for the new blog I’ve been thinking about. How about you make me a blog header?”

So Sophie happily started blog header designing while I spilled some words onto the computer screen. They flowed out easily and minutes later, I had a post.

I’m still feeling excited. Why? I don't really know.

Up and down. Up and down. Up, up, up. I hope I don't return with a thump.

So that's where I'm at. This is where I am. 

I'm here in my brand new space where I can write anything I like about my life, my Catholic life. I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to be writing about. It's all a bit of an adventure. Everyday life? Whatever thoughts happen to come to mind? Or might that be too rambling? What do you think? 

Do you ever find yourself wondering what you should be doing? Or where you are supposed to be?

Image: I wonder if you're wondering what a praying mantis has to do with all this!

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and my Stories of an Unschooling Family blog!