Carolyn's Tribute

As the double doors opened and the prelude music ended, the murmurs in the darkened church died into silence.  For ten years, I’d studied music, and for the past four months, I’d practiced relentlessly for this night.  Only now, I was terrified.  The performance began and ended with flute solos, and some of the most critical musical cues were mine alone to give.  I clutched my instrument in trembling hands and waited for the instant when Madame Colbert, our director, would signal the go-ahead. 

The opening chords of “I Bind My Heart” shattered the silence.  Before the silent cast, I reclaimed lost nerve and long-abandoned dignity, counted to ten, and led the choir—eight sopranos, three altos, two tenors, one bass—in slow and solemn procession down the center aisle.  In the utter dark, I found my place behind the altar and soundlessly turned on one last mike before the melody ended and the lights came up. 

I prayed, head bowed, as the narrators read their part, listening for the words that were my only cue: “And after three days, He will rise again.” 

There was an instant’s silence as I raised my head, fiery exultance in my eyes, and brought the flute to my lips; this moment was mine alone.  Music exploded, glorious, from that sparkling shower of notes.  Adoramus te Christe!  Adoramus te Christe!  Adoramus te Christe!  Adoramus Christe! 

I couldn’t name the moment when the choir put words to that melody, broke into parts, split into rounds, voices soaring in that lofty holy of holies.  Caught up in the music, all that mattered was the purity, the clarity, the brilliance of that single hymn of praise. 

Six more times in that hour, I put joy and pain into melody as actors dined, scourged, crucified.  And when at last it was done, I again raised my flute, this time in final, glorious tribute.  Echo and vibrato ripped through the room, not quite drowning out the sobs of cast, choir, and audience: Ubi caritas et amor.  Ubi caritas Deus ibi est.